“He talked about wanting to be a doctor and ate his chopped cheese”

Chopped cheese

Dear Diary:

I was on my way to the Jackson Hewitt tax office in the Bronx on a Monday evening. I stopped at a Bengali restaurant for dinner. I left with two samosas, as well as dinner and lunch for the next day.

It was 9 p.m. when I arrived at the metro station. I looked around and noticed a boy on the platform. He was playing a video game.

I opened the container with the samosas, but before I could dip one into the sauce, the waiter interrupted me.

Excuse me, miss, he said. Have you a dollar for water? I’m thirsty.

I put my food away.

Let’s go, I said.

We went down.

Are you hungry ? I asked him.

Yes, he said.

We walked to a local Jamaican restaurant known for its jerk chicken, breadfruit, and steamed fish.

Please, miss, asked the boy, can we go to a delicatessen?

We found one nearby. He ordered a cheeseburger and an Arizona iced tea. I paid and we ran to the station.

The train arrived immediately. We boarded and the boy brought out his sandwich. I listened to him talk about his desire to become a doctor and ate his chopped cheese.

Stay focused, I started to say. Before I could say more, he hugged me and said goodnight.

I got off at the next stop and entered Jackson Hewitt.

You are my last client, the tax preparer said.

Oh, great, I said. I stopped at a Bengali restaurant to kill time and…

Oh really, he said. What did you get?

Once my taxes were paid, I left without my curry. I saved my dinner for lunch the next day.

— Lystria Hurley

Floating

Dear Diary:

It’s a windy day, the kind where the wind rushes down the Third Avenue canyon and seems to try to blow away the unstable.

A dozen papers flying through the air like leaves. Two women set out to chase the papers into the gutter. One, clutching the slightly crumpled papers in her hand, thanked the other warmly, and they parted.

Across the intersection, a crisp Yankees Starter cap flew off the head of a tall young man. A small, older woman chased after him, caught him, and handed him back.

-Sarah Jung

‘See you’

Dear Diary:

I was in the locker room at my gym in Hell’s Kitchen changing into my street clothes. A man tying his shoelaces said “see you later” to a friend who was going out.

“You just missed a golden opportunity to say ‘see you soon, I wouldn’t want to be you,'” I told the man.

He looked at me.

“I’d like to think I’m past that point,” he said.

“Of course not,” I replied.

The man got up to leave.

“Be careful,” I said.

“See you soon,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be you.”

—Daniel Bowman Simon

Brooklyn Taco Truck

Dear Diary:

I approached the window of a popular Brooklyn taco truck, just as an older man did the same.

I was in a hurry to get home, but I shrugged and told him he had to go first. He did the same.

“I don’t know who came first,” he said.

“Me neither,” I replied, “but go ahead. »

“You can go too!” » he said.

I suggested a game of rock, paper, scissors to solve the problem.

Even or odd ? he said.

Same thing, I replied.

After a 3-2-1 countdown, we each held up a finger.

We laughed and I walked over to the window to order.

“Pair or odds, for who pays? » » asked the man.

—Emily Spilko

The rotating city

Dear Diary:

I was walking home from an afternoon doctor’s appointment in Midtown when I suddenly felt like the city was spinning around me.

I tried to lean against some scaffolding in front of a building on Second Avenue, but it wasn’t enough to keep me upright. Everything was still spinning and I heard myself calling for help.

There was a woman with a dog a few meters away and she was on the phone. I could hear her crying. She came towards me as I hit the ground.

” Are you OK ? “, we asked ourselves.

“Yes, but I need a minute to see if I can stand,” I said as a man who worked in a nearby building joined us.

I stood up and, embarrassed and stunned, thanked them both for their help. I explained that I felt fine and would be able to walk home on my own.

The woman with the dog offered to come with me to make sure I was okay, and I asked her again if she was okay because I had seen her crying.

“I was talking to someone who called me to tell me that Chita Rivera had just died,” she said.

— Sue Weiner

Read all recent entries and our submission guidelines. Contact us by email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.

Illustrations by Agnès Lee