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METROPOLITAN DIARY

‘My Wife’s Name Was Ruth,’ He Said in a Low, Distant Tone

Jogging an Uber driver’s memory, choosing a side dish at a fancy restaurant and other reader tales from New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.

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Dear Diary:

I was planning a party for my friend Rose. I went to a Dollar Tree store in the neighborhood to get poster board, soda and candy. I left with five or six heavy bags. Checking the time, I decided to take an Uber. I had to hurry.

The car that pulled up to the store was a black S.U.V. I got in, taking note that the beige leather seats were lightly worn from use.

“Ruthie?” the driver said, looking at his phone as I closed the door.

“That’s me.”

He nodded. He was probably in his 60s, and he wore an old-fashioned tweed suit and a bowler with a feather. He didn’t look like any other Uber driver I had ever seen.

He started to drive, and I arranged my bags on the car seats.

“My wife’s name was Ruth,” he said in a low, distant tone.

I felt as though no answer I could give would be satisfactory. He seemed sad. I said what I had available, which was “Oh.”

We arrived at my destination and I thanked him.

“Goodbye, Ruth,” he said.

Later that night, after the party, I cleaned candy wrappers off the floor and wondered what else I could have said.

— Ruthie Klein


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Dear Diary:

When I tell people about my trips to New York, many of them ask about the shows that I saw, the restaurants where I ate, the museums and exhibits that I visited.

Lately, these have not been among my expectations of what to do in the city. I travel to New York from Bethesda, Md., on a Vamoose Bus, which takes me to West 34th Street. At Penn Station, I take the L.I.R.R. to Jamaica or the E train to Queens.

On my visits, we share hugs because we won or we failed; reminisce about simpler days when we were younger and lighter; yell about the state of politics in the comfort of close family and friends; and watch the world’s diversity literally pass by on Queens Boulevard.

We sit around in our pajamas and binge watch “Avengers” movies, breaking for dinner and then watching some more. We reaffirm and develop new proofs of our TADS — teenagers are a different species — theory. We talk about a fish named Marc Anthony and guinea pigs named Merry and Pippen.

New York City: It is the people, and the pets, that bring me here.

— Sudha Sivaram


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Dear Diary:

It was 1961, and I was an assistant manager in the complaint department at W. & J. Sloane, the prestigious furniture store on Fifth Avenue.

The Four Seasons restaurant had opened on East 52nd Street in 1959 and it was already famous. I was dating a beautiful girl named Barbara and decided to take her there for dinner.

We were treated very well and had a nice table. A professional and courteous captain took our order.

I decided to splurge and asked for a side order of asparagus.

“Green or white?” the captain asked.

My jaw fell slack and my mouth was agape. I had never heard of white asparagus.

The captain, seeing my discomfort, quickly covered for me.

“Before you decide you should see them,” he said. He turned and mumbled something to the busboy, who dashed off and returned in a few moments. He had two baskets, one with green asparagus and the other with white.

“I’ll have green tonight,” I said, as casually as I could.

The rest of the dinner went well, and I guess I impressed Barbara. This year we will celebrate our 54th anniversary.

— Lewis Barton


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Dear Diary:

There was one empty seat on the crowded crosstown 79th Street bus, but the woman sitting next to it had put her shopping bag there. I asked her to move it, but she was on her cellphone and ignored me.

I took the bag, gently put it on her lap and sat down. After a while, she got off the phone and turned to me. She was obviously furious.

“Couldn’t you see that I was on the phone?” she snapped.

— Norman Poser


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Dear Diary:

I had a job at one of the retail kiosks at Grand Central Terminal that sold jewelry. Passers-by often asked where certain places were or where to find the subway, so I got used to giving directions.

On one occasion, a woman approached just as a small group was at the kiosk examining the jewelry.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Wasn’t there a coffee shop right here?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it got removed. I’m sorry. There is one not too far from here though.”

“Oh, shoot,” she said. “You have customers.”

I assured her that it was no problem and proceeded to give her directions to the coffee shop.

“Thank you so much,” she said, hurrying off while I turned my attention to other people at the kiosk.

About 10 minutes later, I was helping someone when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the woman I’d just given directions to.

“This is for you,” she said, placing a small orange envelope in my hand. In neat handwriting, it said, “Thank you for directing me!”

Inside was a gift certificate to the coffee shop I had directed her to. Before I could speak, she was gone.

I still keep that little orange envelope on my desk.

— Olivia Grady

Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.

Illustrations by Agnes Lee

A version of this article appears in print on  , Section A, Page 23 of the New York edition. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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