Dear Diary: There was a light snow falling, dusting everyone outside a little ramen restaurant on an otherwise quiet street in H...
Dear Diary:
There was a light snow falling, dusting everyone outside a little ramen restaurant on an otherwise quiet street in Hell’s Kitchen. The door list said still an hour for me, one, dining alone. Inside, there were maybe 10 seats at the bar, a few small tables in the back. Halfway underground, the place itself seemed almost like a steam pipe, puffing out over wet, black pavement.
After a few comings and goings, I realized another person was waiting alone. I guessed he was in his late 50s, with wiry, silver hair in a loose ponytail, which grazed the HELL’S ANGELS patch on the back of his leather jacket. He had big boots, a beard. I was in my early 20s. I wondered who might be coming to meet this burly man, and, after a while, it seemed, no one.
So we were two singles, of different sorts, but we each waited alone in the snow for this ramen. I wondered which of us would be seated first. Then I worried that we would be seated together.
And as the host did call my name, he also called another. Surely, it was this man, and we were seated together. We exchanged pleasantries, ordered beer. He started with edamame and offered to share. We were quiet after the ramen came. Strangers, slurping.
He paid and said goodbye, before I finished and asked for my own check. When I did, I found that it had already been paid for. He was long gone.
This article was first published on NOV. 11, 2015
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