Dear Diary:
I was leaving my office in SoHo the evening of Aug, 1 when the rain began to pour down harder. Having no umbrella, I walked swiftly on Spring Street toward a block I saw mostly covered by scaffolding, joining the queue of unprepared New Yorkers who always huddle under construction to keep dry.
I had on a short skirt that exposed a large cut and bruise on my right knee, a souvenir from a painful sidewalk blunder earlier that week. From the corner of my eye, I caught a man about 30 years old, with blond facial hair and a trim blazer, studying my leg.
He interrupted the quiet of the dry pocket of sidewalk.
“Battle wound?†he asked. I looked up.
“You’re scrappy,†he continued. He smirked at me, his eyes crinkling. I looked him in the eye and smiled back.
There is only so long we can stay inside the shell of these moments, sheltered by awnings and overhangings and comfortable silences, waiting on a storm we don’t know will let up. Without looking back, I stepped into the thick curtain of rain and limped up Broadway.
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