Dear Diary:
It was a crisp, fall Saturday morning, and Zabar’s was abuzz with people of every description.
Per my well-established routine, I had finished my period of wandering aimlessly — my wife makes all the big food decisions — and had assumed my usual station near the hand-cut smoked fish, where I marveled at the practiced skill of the men in white coats who smoothly slice paper-thin sheets of that precious food.
A well-dressed woman with coifed hair and in a full-length fur moved to the front of the line, and one of the servers, an older, wiry man with a carefully tended mustache and neat chef whites, quickly strode around the end of the counter in the woman’s direction.
His head down slightly and his hands grasped together in front of his coat, he approached her.
“Mrs. Schwartz,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure serving you all these 37 years. This is my last day. I’m retiring and moving to Florida.”
The woman raised her chin slightly.
“I wish you all the best, Myron,” she said.
The two of them shook hands, and he returned to his place behind the counter. He carved off the quantity of lox she had asked for, and handed it to her.
She nodded once and walked away.
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