Saturday, 22 January 2005 | Bad things

"Hi. You mind if I take your picture?" He was shoveling snow, but rather than dumping it in a neat pile at the edge of the sidewalk, he was flinging it at a friend. It wasn't clear whether he was playing or working.

"Mom says bad things happen when we let people take our pictures."

"Okay, then. Thanks anyway." I turned to walk away.

"But you seem like a nice lady...so, yeah, go ahead." Nice lady.

He politely asked to see the photo I'd taken of him, correctly assuming that my camera is made of pixels. He talked like a little adult, asking whether I was new to the neighborhood.

We were a 15-minute walk from my place, twenty-five in the quickly accumulating snow. "No, I've lived here for a couple of years. I'm over on H Street."

It turns out, not only do we live in the same building, but he lives in the apartment directly below mine. And, as a result of our little interaction, he's now the person in my building whom I know best, only barely surpassing the quiet woman in the black scarf who's cemented to my stoop.

Crap, I've already forgotten his name.