We held hands on the treadmill.  That is all.  That’s the post for today.  Held hands on the treadmill for a few minutes, and I almost died of romantic delight.  I didn’t want to let go, but did anyway, just in case he was thinking, “Why are we still holding hands?”

My left hand, his right.  It was all I could focus on, all I could think about, my entire world at that moment pinpointed to that one small gesture, those two hands, those ten fingers, my one heart wanting to be out of my chest with “love” or whatever.

I took this photo of West Side Nuts, at 118 West 72nd Street, ten years ago today, shortly after it went out of business. It was such an earnest little place, and I always imagined the fellow behind the counter quietly saying, “Please buy my nuts” as people passed by and not only didn’t buy his nuts but didn’t even realize he existed.

The incredible modesty of this place, and the whisper of “West Side Nuts” on the window struck in me such pathos that at times I thought I would sob right there on the sidewalk. Indeed, when the day came that I saw its windows papered, so even if the quiet man were still inside, perhaps sweeping the floor of errant nuts from long-gone years, I wouldn’t have been able to see him, I gasped, my heart sank, and, knowing me, I got all teary, and I apologized to the store itself and the man who ran it.

Grampa Hillson doesn’t have any teeth but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bite.  The man opens his mouth and the bon mots, mean as they are, tumble out like teeth do in dreams.  This guy’s got a way of excoriating even the most self-proclaimed tough guys, those who with wide, booze-created grins displaying a wide variety of dentition, have called him names they’ve pulled from their ample asses.  It’s a beautiful thing to see, from my vantage point under a tattered sleeping bag on top of a cardboard box in the corner of the abandoned playground we call home.

The car turns into the street just as she steps off the curb to cross.  It pauses, though, to allow her passage, and after two steps of walking, she switches to a lively trot, turns her head to the left as she gives the driver what she hopes is a charming, winsome smile, mouths the words “Thank you,” and adds the flourish of a jaunty thumbs-up followed by a peace sign.  She wants the driver to think she’s the best pedestrian this side of the Hudson River, hoping he’s not really thinking, “Yeah, yeah.  Just fucking cross the street, lady.”

Yesterday while enjoying the first half* of my lunch (onion bialy!) on a bench outside Kossar’s, I struck up a conversation with a lovely older couple (Steve and Lenore) to my right, who, it turns out, live very close to me. When I said I moved to the UWS 20 years ago, “to be closer to …”, Lenore said, “… all the Jewish people” before I could say “Zabar’s.”

If I hadn’t already felt kinship (or knishship, since we talked about knishes as well), that would’ve sealed the deal. These are the kinds of moments that make my day.

*I devoured the second (sesame bagel) upon arriving home.

Grampa Hillson doesn’t have any teeth, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bite.  The man opens his mouth and the bon mots, mean as they are, tumble out like teeth do in dreams.  This guy’s got a way of excoriating even the most self-proclaimed tough guys, those who with wide, booze-created grins displaying a wide variety of dentition, have called him names they’ve pulled from their ample asses.  It’s a beautiful thing to see, from my vantage point under a tattered sleeping bag on top of a cardboard box in the corner of the abandoned playground we call home.

Yesterday marked my eighteenth anniversary in this apartment and patio.  Every year, just when I think they’re not going to, the hostas’ purple flowers bloom.

Several years ago I rescued a desiccated plant from someone’s curbside trash.  I felt it still had life, so I brought it home, watered it, and told it it was safe.

When I woke up one morning, its bright pink flowers, which I hadn’t known even existed, had bloomed.  They didn’t last long, and the plant died soon afterward, but I know it was the plant’s way of thanking me for giving it a chance.

Just a test. Don’t get too excited. Yet.