Sticky Night
Dear Diary:
It was a hot summer evening. I was 22 and the guy I was dating had just come home from a movie shoot in Berlin.
We had fought over email the whole time he was gone and the fighting continued in person when he came back. We walked for hours through Washington Square Park in circles through an impossibly tacky night made more sticky by the tears and screams.
At 3am he ended it while hailing me a taxi. Stunned, I dropped into the backseat, an air-conditioned oasis of coolness.
When the taxi drove up, I lost it. The driver spent the 20 minute journey telling me why I shouldn’t be sad, that the one meant for me would never make me cry like that.
He told me about his happy marriage and three young children, and when we got to my building, he sat there lazing with the meter off until I was able to laugh at one of his jokes.
I knew then that I was home.
— Alyssa Shapiro
spotted
Dear Diary:
I was with my brother in New York in the winter of 2004. He took me to dinner at Honmura An in SoHo.
Soon there were two people sitting next to us.
“Yoko Ono,” Matt said. “Sean Lennon.”
We pretended New York cool, didn’t interrupt or acknowledge them while we all enjoyed our delicious Japanese noodle dinners.
A few nights later we were at the Park Avenue Armory for the winter antiques show. And there she was again: Yoko Ono.
She pointed to my brother.
“You were in Honmura An recently!” she said.
Fame works both ways, I guess.
— Tavenner Hall
Charcoal
Dear Diary:
I boarded a 1 train in Chambers Street and took a seat in the middle of a half-empty car. It wasn’t until we reached Penn Station that I saw my charcoal-like likeness in the open sketchbook of the older man sitting next to me.
I sat as still as I could until 50th Street while he finished sketching. He signed the sheet, tore it carefully along the perforation and handed it to me without saying a word.
“This is great,” I said. “Do you do this often?”
“Every day,” he replied. “On another train.”
“What tomorrow?”
“The 6.”
We talked for a while. He told me about his time as a city worker and why he used charcoal. I drove two extra stops so we could finish the conversation.
I found a $10 bill in my wallet and thanked him for the photo and chat.
“I’ll see you again,” he said.
“I sure hope so,” I said.
Luckily I walked the 19 blocks home.
— Renato de Angelis
Last night was a movie
Dear Diary:
“Last night was a movie,” Swati said, biting into her sandwich.
We’d all gone out the night before to celebrate Faiz’s birthday at an open mic night at Harlem Nights, where neon lights lit tipsy faces and a unique disco ball spun in front of the stage.
I was instantly captivated by the energy of the place: strangers punched each other, dancers dug to jazzy tunes, and servers held trays of margaritas woven through the crowd.
“What is it, Swati?” said the MC, wearing dreadlocks and sunglasses. “Are you going upstairs tonight?”
“You know,” Swati said. “I’m singing something I wrote this morning.”
Throughout the show, we were treated to a parade of musical geniuses: an artist born for Bruno Mars ballads, a feisty performer with a homemade knit hat, and a rapper who defied the laws of oxygen.
“Whose birthday is it?” shouted the MC during intermission. “Let’s sing to you!”
We cheered for Faiz as he took the stage.
“Can I play the drums?” he asked.
The MC lowered his sunglasses to get a better look at Faiz’s face.
“Are you playing?” he asked.
Taking the question as an invitation, Faiz grabbed the chopsticks and hit an impeccable intro fill. The crowd went wild. The band quickly picked up its beat and played the melody.
The backing singers jumped in on the following chords and urged the audience to sing “Happy birthdayyy to youuu…” in perfect harmony. We had the coolest rock version of “Happy Birthday” ever made.
The whole bar chanted Faiz’s name as he came off the stage, his blushing face beaming.
“Best birthday ever,” he said.
Yes, last night was a movie.
— Laura Yin
“What about New York?”
Dear Diary:
I was walking south toward Penn Station and my train home at the end of a long day when I heard the two people walking in front of me.
“LA is tough,” someone said. “It’s all about looks. If you don’t look good, it’s hard to get anywhere.”
“What about New York?” the other asked.
“New York?” replied the first person. “New York is more about brains than looks.”
— Frederick Hurford
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee