I took myself to DUMBO on Tuesday because I had a rare day off and no plan, which is dangerous for me.
I got off the F at York Street and walked down toward the water, past the cobblestones that ruin every good shoe I own. Jane's Carousel was spinning slow inside its glass box, half empty, mostly tourists getting that one Manhattan Bridge photo everyone gets.
I sat on a bench near the DUMBO carousel with a samosa from a place I will not name because they overcharge and I still go anyway.
That is where I met her. A woman, maybe forty, sitting two feet away, crying the kind of quiet cry you do when you have decided nobody will notice. In New York we usually give people that privacy. We look away. It is our version of politeness.
But she caught my eye by accident and gave me that mortified half-smile, and I could not look away.
So I did the only thing my mother's daughter knows how to do. I held out the samosa. "It's still warm," I said. "I have two."
I did not have two. I ate a bad street pretzel later out of principle.
She laughed, this wet surprised laugh, and took it. We did not exchange life stories. She told me she had a hard morning. I told her the DUMBO carousel always makes me feel better because it just keeps going in circles no matter what, which is either comforting or terrifying depending on the day.
We watched the carousel turn. The bridge hummed above us. A boat went by.
After a while she stood, thanked me, and left toward the ferry. I never got her name.
There is a thing about this city. It will crush you on a Monday and then a stranger will take your samosa on a Tuesday and you both feel a little less alone.
Be the extra samosa when you can.
Love,