The following happened in late March on Third Avenue and 92nd Street.
That morning, I was walking toward the bakery where I usually buy my breakfast scone. A bakery worker was standing outside the door, holding a large, unwieldy tray of pastries and looking steadily at me.
“Can I open the door for you?” I asked.
“I’m just watching you step in dog poop,” he replied. And he was, as I did.
Joan Platt
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