Track of the Night time

Expensive Diary:

We left the bar, scarfed down some pizza throughout the road and hopped in a taxi again to Brooklyn after an evening out dancing within the West Village.

It was 2014, and RuPaul’s new single, “Sissy That Stroll,” was our music of the night time. My girlfriend pulled it up on her telephone and began enjoying it out loud.

We sang alongside and danced in our seats. When the music ended, the motive force motioned for my pal handy over the telephone.

He plugged it in, and the music began enjoying once more via the automotive’s audio system. Then once more, and once more.

Every time, the motive force turned up the amount, dancing together with us as we sailed over the Brooklyn Bridge, home windows down, singing into the night time.

— Emily Wilson

Good Boy

Expensive Diary:

My boyfriend and I not too long ago adopted a smallish 4-year-old mutt. His identify is Kode, and he’s a dream round individuals however unpredictably barky round different canines, particularly greater ones.

After I stroll Kode on Riverside Drive, I generally slink away once I see different canines approaching, to keep away from sneers from their house owners and embarrassing confrontations.

On one current wet morning, I noticed a younger girl with two small canines that appeared to be about the correct dimension for Kode to get together with.

Earlier than approaching, I gave the girl my spiel: “Kode is a shelter canine who doesn’t but have the perfect social abilities round his friends, regardless that, I imagine, his intentions are good.”

She was understanding, and our interplay went easily. I thanked her for her persistence and kindness. She pulled out a bag of frivolously worn canine jackets. She mentioned she was making an attempt to present them away and requested if we’d like one.

My little misfit walked away with yet one more regular social interplay beneath his belt and a pink rain poncho that match him completely.

— Veronica Majerol

One thing Small

Expensive Diary:

I got here to New York Metropolis in 2019 from a northern Canadian city to go to a pal. Whereas she was at work, I caught a trip on the Staten Island Ferry to get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

It was a heat September day, and I sat outdoors on the deck, staring on the giants: Girl Liberty loomed forward, huge and inexperienced; behind me, workplace towers shot up into the blue sky. Throughout me, ships handed by.

I couldn’t assist however assume that all over the place I appeared, rusted steel, shiny glass and grey concrete dominated nearly each floor.

I took a deep breath, catching a whiff of diesel fumes from tugboats that had been competing for a patch of the harbor whereas the ferry clanged and banged ahead.

How do individuals reside right here? What makes somebody need to be a New Yorker with all of this noise, these foul smells and arduous edges?

Then, I seen one thing. Fluttering above the water on the breeze was a butterfly.

One thing gentle had discovered area in the course of the entire roughness. One thing small had made its personal method. One thing tiny had discovered a house in New York.

— Lea Storry

No Frills

Expensive Diary:

In 1990, on one in all my frequent journeys to New York, I stayed at a modestly priced, no-frills lodge close to Lincoln Heart.

The room was tiny, and the menu was restricted when it comes to breakfast decisions.

When the tray with espresso and milk arrived, I requested the server for a spoon, as there wasn’t one on the tray.

He sighed.

“All of the spoons are in use proper now,” he mentioned.

— Ilene Starger

Seeley Avenue

Expensive Diary:

I walked slowly down the road, not in a position to take a full breath. There’s a sharpness in my chest, my toes too heavy to carry.

After which a sound, a gentle brushing, like a drummer retaining time. Two ladies sweeping leaves. The strokes are shut, but not collectively, a rhythm upon rhythm.

Across the nook, there’s extra sound. Three extra ladies sweep crunchy, brown leaves. By some means, all of them got here out on the similar time this December morning to color the road with music.

The sound of many brooms, every with many straws, every straw singing a pitch that blurs right into a wash of excessive whisking tones.

The ladies look down at their very own sidewalk, enjoying their very own half, and right here I’m to benefit from the refrain of strokes.

5 completely different rhythms, extra intricate than most songs, taking place just because the leaves fell to the bottom, just because it’s by some means nonetheless autumn although it’s December.

Autumn is the season that he left. Is it doable this fall won’t ever finish — that I’ll eternally take a look at timber half naked, half coloured in leaves, like we’re all simply ready to vary however can not fairly let go?

— Mare Berger

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee