Food Cart
Dear Diary:
I was near Central Park South for a doctor’s appointment, so I decided to stop at a food cart I used to frequent when I worked in the area.
The cart was owned by an Egyptian couple. The woman who worked there gave me a free banana and said “love you” without fail every day.
She didn’t know that I was going through a rough time, and that she was often the only bright spot in my otherwise grim days.
As I got in line on this occasion, I worried that she wouldn’t be there anymore and that if she was, she wouldn’t remember me. After all, it had been six years.
But there she was, at the rear of the cart. We made eye contact, and she kept looking back at me.
“Did I see you at Costco the other day?” she asked.
I smiled and shook my head.
She stepped in front of the cart. Her shirt said, “I love you.”
“No, no,” she said. “I remember you.”
She gave me a free bagel and told me proudly that her daughter was a big shot at Chase now. She told me to come back soon.
As I walked away, I began to tear up. I wished she knew what her kindness had meant to me all those years ago.
— Kelly Krause
Puzzling
Dear Diary:
I’ve taken the A to work for 20 years. And for 20 years, I’ve done puzzles on the train during the ride.
I didn’t think there could be any more firsts for me on my commute after so long until a recent morning.
As I sat there working on a Sudoku puzzle, a man stood over me telling me where to put the numbers.
At first, I was inclined to tell him he was out of line. Instead, I complimented him on his ability to read backward, and we did the Sudoku together until he got off the train.
— Sandra Feldman
‘Misty’
Dear Diary:
I walked to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade at the end of a long week. I planned to go for a run after taking in the view for a few minutes.
Golden shadows danced tenderly against the red brick that flanks one side of the ramp down. Tree branches and falling leaves were momentarily etched by orange rays. The sky was pink and glorious.
Two young men set up their saxophone, electric guitar and small speaker. The music started so gently: “Misty.”
The saxophone carried the melody. I settled against the fence, my back to the skyline, and watched, an audience of one.
A man in a red flannel shirt slowed to a stop. His hair, brownish and thinning, shined in the setting sun. His face softened as the music played. He caught my eye with a quick smile and settled against the fence a few yards away.
We stood and listened together, taking in the dying leaves on the trees, the people of New York and the beautiful music.
When the song ended, he clapped first, and then I joined in. The musicians nodded. A prickling of tears in my eyes, which had begun at the start of the song, grew as I wondered what to do next.
The man approached the musicians. I turned away and started my jog. I thought about my endless nights alone in my room.
A few minutes later, I saw the man who had been listening to the music walking in my direction with a grinning woman at his side.
I caught his eye for a moment, and I think he recognized me before I looked away. My face, already warm from the run, sizzled more.
The sky was starting to darken. As I turned, I saw my shadow, indistinguishable from the pavement.
— Dylan Nadelman
Albertine
Dear Diary:
What do I know about France?
What do I know about French bookstores in New York City?
Not much is the answer to both questions.
But I do know about sisters.
And I saw two sisters in the French bookstore.
It’s not like I asked them: “Are you sisters?”
I didn’t need to. I could tell by watching them amid a dispute.
When sisters have conflict, their reactions are unique.
Sister #1 said something I couldn’t hear.
Sister #2 replied: “In Malaysia, people don’t mention the tiger for fear it will draw him out.” I’m not sure if this was an allegory, but for a moment, the moment became sharp. Coincidentally, in a moment, after that moment, the sisters hugged each other with their eyes, while allowing each other red carpets of retreat.
I didn’t end up buying a French book.
Instead I considered sisters.
Before leaving in pursuit of ice cream.
— Danny Klecko
Tasty Contraband
Dear Diary:
We were waiting to get into a comedy show in Brooklyn on a Thursday night. Members of the venue’s security staff were checking bags.
“No drinks,” they hollered. “No food. No cookies.”
Pieces of fruit were confiscated. Some people had their chocolate taken away.
After clearing security and heading for the entrance, we saw a box filled to the brim with delicious contraband: apples, bananas, oranges and, to top it all off, a large, vacuum-sealed package of cooked octopus.
— Betty Tsang
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