I walk down Park Avenue on my way to Mass.
And it is twilight, according to my almanac of sunrise and sunset that I printed out, and the windows are all lit up. This is my favorite time to walk down Park Avenue: I gape at all the houses
There is a dog that is not like the other dogs on Park Avenue. The other dogs are perfect Afghan hounds or small maltese, or yorkies, or nice beagles in well-tailored sweaters.
This dog is an elderly and unkempt chocolate lab. And he flops on the sidewalk despondently whenever his owner tries to walk him.
This is for the woman with hair so gray it is mauve.
This is for the woman in the dress that is decorated in a pattern that looks like a Hieronymus Bosch coral reef.
This is for the woman who sits next to me in the pew and takes my breath away. She seems so much more solid and real than I, with her flawless, smooth skin, rolled out on her bones like a delicate layer of chocolate. She is tall and slender, her build is economical. I feel like a lumpy fluke of evolution, wasted away in polar regions.
This is for the woman who turned to me and said: Your eyes are beautiful. I lost my breath, and foundered in the muddle of people running from the 6 train to the 4. And I have never felt so loved; to have received such admiration, with nothing expected in return.