My Speculative Future at the Hungarian Pastry Shop

Back when Columbia was in-person, I made a regular habit of walking down Amsterdam to the Hungarian Pastry Shop. My trips usually started the same way: I would order and attempt to pay at the counter (with the cash I withdrew specifically for this event), only for the server to tell me, once again, that you pay when you leave. I’d take up too much space walking down the narrow corridor between tables and utter a consistent stream of apologies, primarily directed at the chairs I hit in my wake. I’d excuse-me my way to a table, pull out my laptop, and see that it had 9 percent battery remaining—barely enough to open a saved PDF, let alone writ…