Dear Lexington Market

Thank you for being closed on Sundays and eliminating 98% of all walking traffic. I love being able to pull out of my parking garage and not chance hitting five non-crosswalk-using people.

With all the sincerity a letter like this can hold,

Your Across the Street Neighbor


Dear Girl Repeatedly Pulling Instead of Pushing Starbucks’ Glass Doors,

It broke my heart a little when you said, “How do I get out of here!” and everyone looked up at you. There’s no judgment here, but maybe you want to brush up on your problem-solving skills?

Don’t worry, no one laughed when you left, because we’ve all been there.

I May have Laughed a Little,

Girl in the Back Corner Who Dropped All Her Stuff After You Left


Dear Attractive Man Running Down Charles St. with No Shoes on Your Feet,

I see you aren’t against a good running outfit, but you don’t seem to see the benefit in clothing your feet. Based on this evidence alone, I can only assume you’re from Southern Louisiana too, and you realize that some things are more fun barefoot…

Mais Couillon, I understand dat but ya can’t be runnin down de Charles St. wit no shoes, non. Dat glass is gonna get ya feet, cher.

Get you some shoes, Cher, an keep wearin dem cute shorts,

Single Southern Girl with Glass-in-Foot Experience

P.S. How’s ya mom and dem?

I’m at Starbucks near the harbor—close enough to mention, far enough to park for free—and I’m supposed to be writing about a past, flawed relationship. But facing my own naivety doesn’t seem near as fun as people watching, so I choose the latter.

Small groups of people are scattered around the patio, swapping life’s disappointments or the promise of the upcoming weekend, and I sit alone at a table for two.

An older, red Honda pulls into the parking space in front with the unmistakable crunch of bumper hitting concrete. There’s a collective gasp and the chatter momentarily stops. Mouths hang ajar as they watch the car reverse slowly, producing a scrape rather than a crunch this time.

When the older gentleman (maybe 60) steps out of the car, he smirks at the onlookers and I turn away. I’m embarrassed for him, although he seems relatively unaffected. The patio crowd continues to point at the car and talk about the event, even after he walks inside. They’re acting as though he rolled over a box of kittens, their blood giving his car its audacious color. He crunched his bumper. It happens.