Friday, 18 July 2003 | Preference

They know single details, such as what I like on my burrito, what kind of wine I like to buy, or what time I walk to the subway in the morning. I know some details, too: he moves to another part of the food assembly line at 3:00; he gets drunk at night and can't remember anything that isn't Polish; she lives in the apartment closest to the front door of my building and seems to (quietly) know everyone in the neighborhood. We are familiar with each other solely because we happen to live during the same decade, the same year, in the same city, the same neighborhood.

I don’t know his name, but there’s a guy who, almost every morning, stands in an open garage door on a street between my apartment and the subway. He’s a middle-aged black man, and though I can tell he isn’t especially old, he looks worn. His voice has a gravel quality to it, as if he needs to cough. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he likes to say. Sometimes he mixes it up with a comment about the weather or something equally impersonal, but he it’s always some form of hello, he always smiles, and he always dips his head in a deliberate nod as I pass by.

I don’t know his name, but he knows that I don’t yet love black beans, that I only like them. He’s a Hispanic guy, from Mexico, I think, and he makes quick veggie burritos. He stands behind the counter with a look of concentration that breaks for a second when he recognizes someone. “Veggie. To go. Not too many beans...?” he says for me. Sometimes he mentions the weather or something equally impersonal, something I never initiate, because I can see the long line of people behind me, waiting to get theirs. The man at the end of the line and I also have a little agreement; he knows to never give me a bag.

I don't know her name, but she knows which ways I can (and can't) bend my body, and that I should avoid yoga positions that are hard on my neck. She's a young and tiny bendable straw. Her voice is soft and calm, especially noticeable against the city sounds that drift up through the open window from the street below. She looks like she might be from India. Sometimes, after class, she'll ask me whether I enjoyed the lesson on that particular day (or something equally impersonal). It's strange, seeing her in street clothes, because for some reason I have trouble imagining her with a life outside of that room.

I don't know the name of the UPS man who packs his truck outside of my office building. Or the Middle Eastern man who sells me a banana each morning. Or the guy who works at the deli on my corner, who looks just like the abused deli worker in Amélie. Or the man who sells me cranberry muffins, who (deliberately?) holds onto them a little too long when he hands them to me, so that I have to pull them away. If I stopped passing by these people, they might take notice, but they'd forget me soon enough, just as I probably would them.