![]() ![]() Shapiro could be an actor, too, lively and radiating warmth, dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt, jeans, and heels, as well as a vest that, at first glance, appeared to be moving. No one seems disturbed by the two of us, the recorder conspicuously on the table, my beat-up ARC stuffed with Post-it notes. ![]() The clientele is, I think, largely actors or stagehands, grabbing a quick bite before evening call times at either the nearby Public Theater or the off-off-Broadway theater a few doors down. It’s brisk outside, but the café is cozy and slightly out of time-all wood and candlelight, the tables largely empty except for, here and there, a stylish person sipping from a mug the size of a decorative gourd. ![]() We’re sitting at a table in the back of the Smile, a subterranean café on Bond Street in New York City. "The thing that’s interesting about right now is imagining what I will ever write next,” Dani Shapiro says. ![]()
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