‘I Slid Into a Tight, Coral-Colored Dress and Three-Inch Nude Heels’

Image

Big Night Out

Dear Diary:

It was summer 2007. My best friend, Jane, and I were in our early 30s and, unbelievably, enduring simultaneous divorces from men we had thought we would be with forever.

I visited her in Brooklyn, where she was living at the time while navigating her newly single life in the city.

My trip coincided with Jane’s birthday, so we made a reservation at Gramercy Tavern to mark the occasion even though we felt sad and unmoored as we faced our suddenly uncertain futures.

Although it didn’t feel like there was much to celebrate, we showered, shaved, slathered and spackled ourselves in preparation for the evening. I slid into a tight coral-colored dress and three-inch nude heels.

We took a taxi to Manhattan, an extravagance for us at the time. When the car pulled up to the restaurant and I stepped out onto the pavement, a passing stranger said, “Wow, that dress looks amazing on you.”

My uncertain future suddenly felt full of potential. It turned out to be an unforgettable night.

— Amy Burke

Image

Pausing

Dear Diary:

I was crossing a busy four-lane street in Brooklyn with my 14-month-old Norwich terrier, Danbi, at about 6:30 a.m. We were heading to the park.

An older man pulling a cart piled high with recyclables paused and looked at Danbi. I smiled and was about to pass, but then he spoke.

He told me he had once had a dog too, for 18 years.

“I still miss him so much,” he said. “I look at his pictures on my phone every day.”

Cars passed by. The city was waking up, but in that moment, his voice felt set apart, quiet but full.

I told him that I understood. I had said goodbye to my 22-year-old dog a year ago. Danbi had come into my life not long after that.

The man looked at her again. I saw something in his face shift.

“Your dog must’ve been happy,” I said.

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded slowly. I nodded too, and we stood there in a brief silence that didn’t feel empty. Then we parted ways.

Danbi and I turned down a tree-lined side street. The morning felt a little heavier, but also more tender.

Sometimes all it takes is one pause to remind you that love, even after loss, has a way of crossing back over to you.

— Jungeun Lee

Image

Shirley Temples

Dear Diary:

Nearly 50 years ago, I sat at the bar at my grandfather’s nightclub on Horace Harding Boulevard in Queens. I was 9 and into maraschino cherries and Shirley Temples.

The bartender, in his white shirt, bow tie and vest, grinned as he handed me more cherries and looked at me somewhat conspiratorially.

“You know,” he said, “I used to be a hippie.”

I was glad to be included in his secret.

For years I thought hippies were people who liked sweet cherries.

— Matt Menashes

Image

6/26/94

Dear Diary:

After unloading my meager belongings into a small storage space in Chelsea and returning the moving truck that had brought me 1,000 miles to the city, I rushed to Central Park.

It was Sunday, June 26, 1994 — my first full day living as a New Yorker and a day of celebrations commemorating the 25th anniversary of the Stonewall uprising. It felt like an auspicious beginning.

I had missed the parade but was determined to experience some of the festivities. A few hours later, as revelers began to trickle out of the park, I decided to do the same and explore more of the city.

Stopping to wait for a light on Central Park West, I stood next to an older woman with a cane. As we waited, we started to chat.

I told her I had just moved to the city the night before, and she was delighted to hear it. She told me proudly that she had been living in Manhattan for 60 years after moving from Pennsylvania in her 20s.

When the light changed, I offered to help her across the street, and she graciously accepted. As we got to the other side of the street, she asked what I had been doing in the park.

I told her I had been at a Pride event there, and that it meant so much to me as a gay man.

She looked at me sharply, as if startled. I suddenly wondered if I hadn’t made a miscalculation in telling her that.

I needn’t have worried.

“What are you wasting your time there for?” she said. “You need to get yourself down to the Village. That’s where all the real action is!”

— Anthony Alioto

Image

Familiar Tune

Dear Diary:

I was heading down the stairs to the subway for the first time ever.

I dropped a water bottle that bounced to the rhythm of the Super Mario Bros. theme.

I chuckled and got on the waiting train.

— Wes Sanderson

Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.

Illustrations by Agnes Lee