Eighty-year-old Iris had lived alone in the same apartment since her post-divorce thirties, but she’d always kept to herself, never even borrowing an egg; she’d just as soon go to the corner bodega.
Such was New York: one could give off an “I’m keeping to myself” vibe, and be understood.
But Iris’s eyesight worsened, until she was blind.
Then the same neighbors were hugging her, bringing food and groceries, reading to her, and involving her in their lives.
To her surprise, she adored it.
Then she met a neighbor’s like-aged father, and remarried.
Such was New York: love was everywhere.
Such was New York: one could give off an “I’m keeping to myself” vibe, and be understood.
But Iris’s eyesight worsened, until she was blind.
Then the same neighbors were hugging her, bringing food and groceries, reading to her, and involving her in their lives.
To her surprise, she adored it.
Then she met a neighbor’s like-aged father, and remarried.
Such was New York: love was everywhere.
