‘I Had Asked Him to Tell His Wife How Stunning Her Necklace Was’

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Squeezed In

Dear Diary:

I had managed to squeeze my car into a tight parking spot near my Upper West Side apartment. I was preparing for an upcoming road trip and I returned a half-hour later to determine whether I could fit my bike in the back.

A young man approached me.

Is this your car, he asked.

Yes, I said.

Well, he said, you scratched my bumper. He pointed out the damage.

I apologized profusely.

It’s OK, he said. I see you are an older woman. I get it. If you were some jerk banging my bumper, I would get mad.

I feel terrible, I said. I pulled two $20 bills from my wallet.

Go buy yourself a nice lunch, I said.

Nah, he said, not necessary.

I insisted, and he relented. He gave me some parking instructions, helped me readjust the car in the space, then carried my bike back into lobby of my building.

I introduced him to the doormen.

See you around, he said as he left. Nice to meet you.

— Julie Blackburn

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Rush-Hour Reunion

Dear Diary:

I was on an absolutely jammed, rush-hour 5 train. As it pulled into the City Hall station, two men, standing next to each other, backpack to backpack, turned to let people off.

As they did, they looked at each other. Their mouths simultaneously dropped wide open and then turned into smiles. They let go of the overhead railings and hugged.

“Dude,” one said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. When did you get on?”

“Grand Central,” the other replied.

— David Handschuh

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Bird Box

Dear Diary:

I was walking down Bedford Avenue on a Monday afternoon, hurrying back to my home office in Williamsburg, when I looked down and saw an injured mourning dove on the sidewalk.

A woman was sitting beside the dazed bird, shielding it from passers-by while calling 311.

I stopped to offer my help, which she welcomed. I told her that the Wild Bird Fund, which I follow on Instagram, had recently posted instructions about what to do if you find an injured bird.

We found the emergency bird hotline. In the meantime, we decided the dove might benefit from water and the safety of a shoe box.

I rushed to a nearby doughnut place. I explained the situation and asked for water. The young woman behind the counter eagerly offered some in an espresso cup and waved as I hurried out.

After placing the cup next to bird, I darted across the street to a shoe store. I explained the situation again and said a shoe box would be helpful.

The shopkeeper happily went to the back to fetch one, as customers inquired about the bird situation.

When I returned with the shoe box, the woman was on the phone coordinating the bird’s care.

Before leaving, I felt I should introduce myself to this kind stranger and then asked her name in return.

“My name is Hope,” she said.

— Christina Daigneault

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At the River Café

Dear Diary:

I’m 90. He is 92. Our 56th wedding anniversary was coming up. It had been a tough year. Surgery. Hospitalizations. But we were both heathy by this point and ready to celebrate.

For us, there is no better place to do that than the River Café, with its glorious views of the New York skyline. Our table was right at the window. Sitting nearby was a woman wearing a gorgeous necklace.

She and a man I took to be her husband got up to leave before we did. He had been sitting right next to me, and I had asked him to tell his wife how stunning her necklace was and that I had been admiring it all evening.

He gestured for her to came back to our table.

I repeated my comments.

She reached back and opened the necklace. I was delighted to be able to get a closer look.

Instead, she placed it around my neck.

“You are such a lovely couple,” she said. “Enjoy it.”

With that, they left the restaurant. My husband and I were in shock.

Later, as we were leaving, a woman approached me.

“Your necklace is stunning,” she said. “I’ve been admiring it.”

— Barbara McNamara Lerner

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Painful Move

Dear Diary:

It was April 1982. We were packing to move out of our floor-through apartment in a Park Slope brownstone. I decided that it was time to clean the oven but soon got a painful drop of oven cleaner in my eye.

Holding a towel against my eye, I trudged off to the emergency room.

On my way, I passed a woman sweeping her stoop.

“You have to pray to St. Lucy!” she said. “She’s for the eyes!”

On the next block, an older man looked at me.

“What?” he said with a smile. “Did you forget to duck?”

When I got to the E.R., the admitting nurse listened to my woes and then reprimanded me.