Elvis sings “Cry me a River,” Emma Lee and her neighbors comply; East River surges two feet

A small tidal wave has made its way from North 9th to the East River, and is making its way south to the Buttermilk Channel. There’s been nonstop trail of tears coming out of one house. The four-floor walk up is an unsuspecting one, tucked onto a quiet block round the corner from Bedford’s hubbub. But listen quick, and you’ll hear it: by day, wails come from the buildings two youngest residents, aged three months and two years. By night, and at other unexpected hours, it’s Emma Lee, crying over the her recently ex’ed novio. There’s the before bed bursts, as could be expected, but she’s been spontaneous into tears at more inopportune times: while hosting brunch at a crowded restaurant, over Estrella Dam at the Spanish National House, directly before running ten miles, during a flamenco concert, at the Chelsea Hotel, in Flatbush Farm’s backyard. And of course, there was the floodgate cry, the straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back: at her favorite restaurant, over a medium rare cheese burger. She never thought she was one to throw twenty dollars down onto a table and leave a restaurant, but she was. Emma Lee remembers the sun was setting over the East River, and he was waiting on the corner for her when she came back, all red-eyed and snotty.

Elvis knows it’s a necessary, unfortunate, part of healing (or in the case of the babes, growing), but it sucks, all the same. He brought Emma Lee a new box of Kleenex. It helps a little.