The weather was beautiful—clear blue sky and 70 degrees. It was a Sunday morning that was really an afternoon and ripe for brunch at Tom’s Restaurant, where I had just joyously consumed apple walnut pancakes with cinnamon butter. My old roommate was visiting but now leaving, and when we left the restaurant, we made a right on Washington Avenue and headed south to the subway: Eastern Parkway/Brooklyn Museum, where I spend almost all of my time these days.
Walking down Washington, arm in arm with my boyfriend, I felt the kind of high you can only get on a Sunday when you’ve had a stellar weekend. Sunday night depression, brought on by the realization that the next morning you will have to wake up at 7:30 a.m. and begin your work week all over, was far from my mind. I had on oversize brown sunglasses, and I just wanted to bask in the sun forever.
I didn’t notice anyone coming towards me. I suspect none of us did. But one minute we were strolling and laughing along, the next a woman was at my side. Nondescript, middle-aged, she had been heading in our direction. As she drew even with me, she put her hand lightly on my right arm and leaned in.
“Honey,” she said—and at this point I thought she must have been about to utter something crazy, like “Jesus lives inside you”—“your zipper is down.”
I stood for a few seconds, amazed, before reaching down and realizing that my fly was, in fact, open. And then I burst out laughing. We all did. When I turned to thank her, she had already walked on.
girl, you never did like pants. I miss you.