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About Navan

So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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So, I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles like I’m in some weird game of hopscotch. I pass by the old courthouse on the way to the office. That place gives me the creeps. It’s like, “Hey, remember all those times you messed up?” Thanks, courthouse, I’ll take that reminder with my coffee, please.

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