The line started outside.
It was wrapped around, as lines should be. The perfect length to show that, yes, what’s happening in this small storefront in Old Town is worth seeing, worth waiting for, worth wrapping around a building for.
“I don’t know how clear your conscience needs to be, but the line starts back there,” a man in line snipped as I walked in the doors.
I shot him a look somewhere between obsequious smile and a 14-year-old girl’s interpretation of withering.
“We’re heading up to will-call on the second floor,” I said. “My conscience is fine.” » Read the rest of this entry «