Two Sundays ago, I decided to forego the gym in favor of a very long walk. It took me south and east, and I found myself heading toward Townhouse Diner at 37th and Second. I wanted two things: (1) a toasted-sesame-bagel-and-home-fries breakfast; and (2) a restroom. I hovered outside Townhouse but decided to press on, because I’d earmarked that location for a return visit with my friend Ellen.

I wandered in a circuitous fashion and ended up only two blocks south in front of Gemini Diner, which I can’t remember ever noticing in all my years living here and wandering.

“What’s this?” I said aloud. Quick Googling reveals it’s been in business since 1983! The desired items are on the menu posted in the window!

I entered with barely contained glee. A lovely and polite gentleman led me to a table and took my order. (And yes, I visited the restroom.)

Years ago, I used to do what I dubbed “Fryday” on Friday mornings post-gym, where I’d find a diner and order the only breakfast I ever have when out and about. Unfortunately, most of the old spots are now gone, so “Fryday” had gone the way of the dodo.

When the waiter brought my food, I practically applauded. Perfectly toasted bagel, home fries simultaneously crispy and tender, and the gentleman who tended to me, with whom I chatted for a while afterward, an absolute darling.

I said, “Home fries piled on a bagel is one of my favorite things ever!” Rey (“R-E-Y, like in ‘king’?” I said, and he grinned and said, “Yes!”) laughed and said, “You know, I’ve learned how to eat from the customers!” and delighted me with a tale about a burger and avocado.

I cannot wait to return. Gemini and Rey, you are, yes, gems!

Pauline Weigant thinks she’s the prettiest lady not just in the cul-de-sac but in the entire “Gantry Hills Estates” neighborhood off Route 26. She’s seen the other ladies, slouched in the wicker chairs on their porches in their chenille robes, slurping coffee out of “Love Is” mugs, or taking long drags on Virginia Slims while staring vacantly into space.

Pauline’s pantsuit is harvest gold, to match her kitchen appliances and the ceramic owl mug from which she sips her 8 a.m. coffee and gin with a touch of Sweet ‘n’ Low into which she dips a Stella D’oro Anisette Toast.

To be able to walk down the middle of Broadway without fear of being mowed down is a beautiful thing. There’s so much more that could be said, but this pretty much speaks for itself.

You would have been 88 today, just over seven years more than you were given in this realm.  I wonder how those seven years would have treated you, how you would have treated them.  I shudder to think they would not have been kind to you, one of the kindest people to ever grace the planet.

It goes without saying, of course, but I miss you like mad.  I wish you were here to celebrate with a lunch that you wouldn’t let me pay for.  I miss your desert-dry sense of humor.  I miss you and your ridiculous-but-amazing white sunglasses. 

Cory Blasch is proud of his face transplant. He’s the only kid in school with the face of one of the most beloved creatures on the planet. When Barkley, the family’s 2-year-old Golden Retriever was killed in the same horrific motor vehicle accident that destroyed Cory’s face, Cory joked (fortunately his ability to speak was not impaired) that he wished he could have Barkley’s face, his parents said, “Whatever you want,” so here we are.

He doesn’t mind the endless “Good boy!” comments at school, especially since having the face of a Goldie makes a 14-year-old something of a chick magnet.

Melanie is like the “bad boy” even though she’s a ten-year-old girl.  Or maybe she’s nine.  I don’t remember.  But she’s slick, lean and cool, her dirty blonde hair in a sort of shoulder-grazing bob, parted in the middle, and she leads me and my sister around our apartment complex, where we pull hood ornaments from their perches, and where I pry off a Mercedes emblem that I daydream about wearing as a pendant.

In the company of this oh-so-bad boy-girl, we also ring many doorbells and run.  We fancy that we’re magnificent mischief-makers, outrageous outlaws, hooligans hellbent on mayhem.

He carries himself like a well-worn suitcase with a busted zipper.  His posture is one of unrelenting self-reproach and abject apology.  He bows his head like one of those 1970s floor lamps whose domed chrome fixture is affixed to the base with a curved metal pole, but with none of the swagger. 

“I’m sorry” seeps from his pores more readily than sweat and reeks of preemptive self-deprecation.  He pokes endless fun at himself for things that are only apparent to him and that, when pointed out, leave the other person thinking, “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

There once was a tiny boy who lived in the cardigan pocket of a very large woman. He couldn’t decide if he was extraordinarily small or she was outrageously huge, but either way, the ratio of him to her was largely (!) in her favor, so he didn’t question it much beyond that. He loved living in her cozy pocket, nestled in the soft facial tissue she always kept there (and thankfully never used), and would occasionally feast on the crumbs of whatever cookie she would stash there for her mid-afternoon “emergency lull snack”, as she liked to call it.

The tiny boy loved nothing more than hanging out in that pocket, making little mittens for himself out of lint that would gather there. He was amused by small strips of white paper that would occasionally come to rest there as well, on which important messages such as “You like Chinese food” and “You will have some new clothes” appeared, and wondered if life outside the pocket were as glamorous as those notes suggested. He didn’t dare peek from the pocket when the woman left home, for fear of falling out or being discovered and perhaps mistaken for a mouse.

The woman knew the tiny boy lived in her pocket and not only did she have no problem with his residency but she welcomed it. Brief glimpses into the warm confines revealed that the little fellow was quite good-looking, with glossy black hair, almond-shaped eyes, a mischievous smile. She had never heard him speak, but at times she did feel the faint vibration of short chortles through the chenille and wished she had the gumption to ask him what was so funny. But she did not want to intrude or violate his privacy, even though she was, essentially, his landlady.

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.