There is a bodega on 30th Ave in Astoria that I've been going to for a year, and the cat there knows me now.
His name is Biryani. I did not name him. The guy behind the counter, Sami, named him, and honestly it's perfect because the cat is orange and full of attitude and slightly too rich for his own good.
I don't even live in Astoria. I go there because my friend Nikita does, and after we hang out I always stop at this bodega before catching the N back, and over time it became a ritual.
Biryani sits on the counter by the register like a manager who does no work. The first few months he ignored me completely, which is very New York of him.
But now when I walk in he lifts his head and looks at me and does this slow blink, and Sami says that's cat for I love you, and I choose to believe him.
This is what nobody tells you about New York. You think your relationships here will be big and cinematic. Rooftop parties. Grand best friendships forged over cocktails.
And some are. But a lot of them are small. A bodega cat. The guy at the halal cart who starts making your order when he sees you crossing the street. The woman on the 6 with the same tote every morning.
These tiny recurring characters hold your life together more than you notice. They're proof you exist, that you belong somewhere, that this enormous indifferent city has a few pixels that recognize your face.
On Wednesday Sami gave me a free bag of chips because Biryani sat on my lap. That's the whole story. That's the whole good day.
Biryani, if you can read, you're doing more for my mental health than my therapist.
Love,