Saturday, February 7, 2009
Friday afternoon I poured out of the subway door, full of expectations raised by newscasters predicting a warming pattern for the weekend. The warmth had stubbornly dragged its heals, and I braced myself as I stepped onto the street. Beside me walked a father and his toddler son, packaged in an oversized bubble coat. The toddler pointed across the street and yelled, "Look: Mom!" The father swerved as if caught tramping mud across a freshly clean floor, and directed his eyes to the empty sidewalk across the way. The toddler skipped away, looking over his shoulder and giggling at his gullible father.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ellen lives two doors down from me. Ellen has blond hair cut to just below her chin and an oblong face with round cheeks. Ellen has a Jack Russell terrier who she walks on a short leash. The dog is very well behaved (as opposed to mine who befriends every dog he passes). Ellen looks straight ahead while walking the dog. For many months, Ellen did not say hello or even look at me. Finally, I ran into Ellen in the elevator. To interrupt the awkward silence, I introduced myself. Now when we cross paths, Ellen sometimes greets me. Occasionally, overtaken by shyness, she still averts her eyes.