We both reached for the last copy of "The Bell Jar" and you let me have it, suggesting I write my own story next. Still wishing I’d asked to start that chapter together.
You made my latte at the East Village coffee shop and knew my order by heart. I finally worked up the courage to say hi, but your shift ended before I could.
Our dogs tangled their leashes near the Boathouse and you joked about a canine meet-cute. I chickened out before asking for your number. Tea and treats?
You were the tap dancer in the red suspenders; I was the laughing stranger you pulled into your impromptu performance. My two left feet never felt so right.
You helped me find my missing glasses in the produce aisle on Houston. I wanted to thank you with more than a frantic thank you, but you vanished near the avocados.
We huddled under the same tiny umbrella while waiting for our friends outside the Met. I didn’t get your name, just a memory of your laughter in the storm.
You were reading Murakami with a green scarf wrapped around your hair. We shared a smile as the train jolted, and then you disappeared into the Bedford crowd. Coffee sometime?
