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    Clint Barton sees the future, Natasha Romanoff makes pie, and prophecies always come true.

  2. 07 Sep 2020

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    Bookmark Notes:

    holy shit

  3. 07 Sep 2020

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    There’s a diner at the end of the block, and that’s what it’s called. It’s open 24 hours a day, 364 days a year (closed only, for some reason, on Groundhog Day). The seats are upholstered in kelly green vinyl, the tables are a speckled pink Formica, and the black-and-white tiled floors never stick to your shoes. The neon DINER sign on the roof never flickers. It is not listed in the Yellow Pages, nor will it show up on any Yelp search, but if you’re in Brooklyn and find yourself hungry, there’s a chance your stomach will walk you to the right street corner.

    People visit The Diner at the End of the Block for two reasons: to lose something, or to find something. Most visitors are unaware of this fact. Were you to poll the regular patrons of The Diner at the End of the Block, they’d perhaps mention the perfect Rueben, the jukebox, or maybe the waitress who knows exactly what you want even when you don’t know it yourself. All of them, every single one, will mention the pie.

    (The pie is, in fact, very good, but we’ll get to that later.)

    This isn’t a diner story, mind you; no waitresses will be tripping endearingly over handsome men who need saving from themselves, and there will be absolutely no writing of phone numbers on takeout cups of coffee. It’s just important that you know there’s a place like this, somewhere in Brooklyn, because this is where our story starts.


    That being said, it’s legitimately difficult not to stare when Natasha reaches into her huge bag and brings out canisters of flour and sugar, a tray of blueberries and, after wrinkling her nose at his beaten-up aluminum baking pan, an opaque yellow glass dish with a thin white stripe around the middle.

    So really, he has to ask as he spreads out the cards: “That thing connects to your kitchen, then?”

    Natasha’s arm is so far into the bag that she has to stand on her toes. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says, raising one brow and daring him to comment as she pulls out a worn set of metal measuring spoons.

  4. 07 Sep 2020

    Public Bookmark

  5. 07 Sep 2020


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