Commentaries & Essays

       Growing up, I desperately wanted a pet. We lived in a tenement bordered by an asphalt driveway in the back and a concrete sidewalk in the front. Our apartment was so tiny that we needed only a cook stove to heat the whole place. Clearly, I faced limited pet options. However, being an optimistic child, I decided to ignore the reality of my situation. Against all odds, I begged my parents for a horse.

Once, as I waited for my husband, Bruce, outside the door of a Trader Joe’s in Manhattan, a blond-haired man walked up and stood uncomfortably close to me, definitely well within my personal space. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue—collar turned up, arms of a cashmere sweater wrapped around his shoulders, khaki pants, loafers, no socks.  He lit up a cigarette, then turned so he was mere inches from my face.  He smiled and blew smoke straight at me. I edged away, moving to the other side of the door.