Lucky Mirror
Dear Diary:
I met Em through the online ads while searching for a large mirror to hang over the fireplace in my brownstone apartment in Brooklyn.
She and her two cats greeted me at the door of her Williamsburg loft. She showed me the gold-framed beauty, and I agreed to buy it on the spot.
Both born-and-bred New Yorkers, we completed the transaction quickly and moved on to discussing our life histories, shared interest in real estate and love of cats. Three hours later, I left with an invitation to meet her for coffee the following week.
We became good friends and visited each other’s homes often. I was glad Em approved of where I had put her mirror in my home, which she said reminded her of her grandmother’s place.
Over time, Em braved the internet dating scene and eventually met “the one,” Larry. She let me know when they had reached that critical mark of the third date.
Within a year or so, they were engaged, and I was invited for a weekend celebration on Fire Island with a group of her friends. Larry invited just one: an old roommate, Bruno, who had moved to the United States from Switzerland decades earlier.
One conversation and a shared dinner prep led to others, and in January we will celebrate our 21st anniversary. The lucky mirror hangs in our dining room, where Em and Larry, who live nearby, often join us for dinner.
— Hannah Brooks
Still a Man
Dear Diary:
Now 6’2”, at one time even taller.
Like a tree bracing its corner of the elevator,
he extends his cane to hold the door open for her.
A gesture, gracious, effortless, done a thousand
times before at the sight of a pretty woman.
“Thank you, so that’s good for more than one thing,”
she flirts. His comeback quick: “ … and it’s good
for closing my car door, too.” Once dashing,
Scandinavian — broad shoulders, long legs,
Marlboro-man square jaw, cleareyed. Hair
now feathery, thick ankles, halting shuffle
… a book under his left arm, another sign he is
still who he truly was, the cane leading on the right.
Important to him to let her know he is still a man
even if not quite in the game, he has a car,
he drives the car, he gets around … wants
her to know that much as they part on Eighth Avenue
— Maria Lisella
Getting in Tune
Dear Diary:
I was on the Upper East Side early on a Friday evening waiting to take the Q to Brooklyn. The platform was not too crowded.
Amid the calm, a busker’s song struck my untrained ear as a jarring din. The problem, it seemed, was his out-of-tune guitar.
When he paused, I approached him, nervously touching his arm as a signal that he not take me the wrong way, and then suggested that he check the strings.
Surprised but affable, he did and quickly made the necessary adjustments.
The reward was instant. As the next train arrived, a listener drawn by the guitarist’s sweetly melodic song flipped a fistful of bills into his bucket.
— Juliet Faber
Pixie
Dear Diary:
As a recent college graduate from Michigan living on Bleecker Street, I suffered from New York City impostor syndrome. No matter how I struggled to master the confidence “real” New Yorkers exude, my Midwesternness hung over my shoulders like a sandwich board.
One evening, I passed a man with a Rottweiler standing on the steps of a walk-up near my building.
“Cool dog,” I said, cringing inwardly.
“This is Pixie,” the man said. “She’s a sweetheart. Want to hang out with her for a while?”
“OK, sure,” I stammered.
He tossed me the leash, hurried up the steps and vanished into the building.
Utterly unfazed at having a strange woman at the other end of her lead, Pixie yawned and flopped onto the pavement, her massive chest on my feet.
I sat down too. Tentatively, I patted her head.
“Cool dog,” a man passing by said.
“This is Pixie,” I said.
“Is she friendly?” the man’s companion asked.
“She’s a sweetheart,” I replied.
Before long, it had happened again. And again.
We settled into a pattern, Pixie and I. She thumped her tail to all while I made introductions and assured strangers of her gentle disposition.
It gradually dawned on me that nobody knew this wasn’t my dog. Pixie, every ounce the streetwise urban canine, was making me look like a bona fide New Yorker.
My next thought was: What if her owner never returns?
Just then, he jogged down the steps, thanked me and grabbed the leash.
I gave Pixie one last wistful pat and continued along Thompson Street, an impostor once again.
— Kathy Passero
Beautiful Bouquet
Dear Diary:
I was on a 1 train going uptown at rush hour. The car was packed.
A woman with a big bouquet of flowers got on and stood next to me.
“What a beautiful bouquet of tulips,” I said.
She looked at me with a serious expression.
“Want to buy them?” she asked.
— Phil Papa
Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email [email protected] or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.
Illustrations by Agnes Lee
The post ‘Nobody Knew This Wasn’t My Dog’ appeared first on New York Times.
