Dear Diary:
It was a cool afternoon in July 1973 when my girlfriend, Molly, and I settled down on a wooden bench at the Bronx Zoo.
She was an Off Broadway actress. I had recently graduated from college and had a job offer in Colorado. I had a ticket in my pocket for a flight out of La Guardia later that day that would drop me off in Denver before midnight.
We wondered what the future held for us.
We had argued over favorite snacks: popcorn (hers) or cotton candy (mine). We ended up negotiating a Cracker Jack compromise. But it was our last day together, and Molly and I had left many things unsaid.
Behind a fence no more than 15 yards away, an orangutan had plopped himself down on the grass. Like a wise ascetic, he was scrutinizing us, two skinny creatures holding hands.
“Look at him,” Molly said. “He’s thinking about something.”
His orange fur glistened around his pleasing plump physique. His bearded chin rested on his left fist.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said.
Molly laughed.
“Not you, silly,” she said. “Him!”
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