Paint splashed on his pants, motor bike helmet in hand we meet on the streets of greenpoint. I was wondering in a deconstructed coverall, knowing someone interesting would come along.
He’s an interesting man, who never tells me the origin of his accent, but invites me into the Sprint store in front of where his motor bike is parked.
He picks up a speaker for his daughter and we test it with a song that I love. And then he tells me how he likes his coffee : lightly brown like me.
That would be likened to a cortado – I love cortados.