To the woman on Hancock Street in Bed-Stuy, near the old brownstone with the boarded windows. We've talked three times now and I still don't know your name. Is it Clara?
First time was about two weeks ago. I was walking home late from the G train and you were standing on the corner looking a little lost. You asked me what year it was, which I thought was a funny way to start a conversation. I said 2026 and you got this strange look on your face. I figured you'd had a long night. We've all been there. You were wearing this old dress—like vintage, really vintage. I asked if you'd come from a costume party and you just laughed and said "something like that." You had a great laugh. A little sad, maybe, but great.
Second time was a few nights later. Same corner, same dress. I asked if you lived nearby and you said you'd "been here longer than anyone." I assumed you meant your family had roots in the neighborhood. Respect. You asked about my job, my life, whether I was happy. It was intense but in a good way. Like you really wanted to know.
I noticed you kept looking at the brownstone behind us. I asked if that was your place and you said you "couldn't leave it." I get it, it's rent-stabilized, right? Nobody's giving that up.
Third time was last night. I brought you coffee, but you didn't take it. Lactose intolerant? You didn't explain, just smiled and told me I was kind to remember her. I said of course I remembered—we'd just talked two days ago. You looked surprised by that, like time worked differently for you.
Here's the thing: I tried to touch your hand and it was freezing. Are you sick? You pulled away fast. I'm sorry if that was too forward. You said something like "it's not you, I'm just not... all here right now." I totally understand. Dissociation is real. This city's stressful.
Anyway. I walk down Hancock most nights around eleven. I worked a late shift. If you see this, come say hi. I never got your name, but someone in the bodega said a woman named Clara used to live in that brownstone "way back when." Maybe you know her? Maybe you're related?
I don't know why, but I feel like you've been waiting for someone. I'm probably not who you're looking for, but I'd still like to talk again.
You're not like anyone I've ever met and there's something about you I can't put my finger on. I hope you're ok.
—The guy with the coffee