How to Live Without Apologies

I scooted my base down the concrete stoop and made a beeline for the curb, right where the street opens its metal ribs to the municipal drain. Pedestrians tiptoe around these storm grates like they're afraid of what lurks underneath, but I parked right over the slotted iron. A cool, subterranean draft rushed straight up into my throat, carrying the rumble of distant subway trains and damp iron pipes. A scruffy pigeon hopped over to inspect a flattened bottle cap beside me, cocking its head when it saw my open grin. The real machinery of this city hums underneath the clean pavement, and I drank in every single draft.