When my neighbor asked me out, I agreed on the condition that I come on roller skates. It was the golden age of roller disco, and I’d just gotten a fancy new pair with polyurethane wheels. Also, I thought he was stodgy and probably boring. I figured he’d say never mind. Instead, he showed up on Saturday night with his skateboard in hand. After being turned away by countless establishments on account of my footwear, we found an outdoor bar in the courtyard of a swanky hotel. I braved the uneven brick patio, no small feat for someone whose skating prowess consisted of charging headlong into trash cans to come to a stop.
Our bartender had a pixie haircut, a bubbly personality and seemingly zero experience making drinks. I’d later find out that she was the reservations manager, graciously filling in for the actual bartender. Can you make a fruity frozen margarita? I asked. She rummaged around, produced a kiwi. Perfect, I said. She dropped it into the blender, skin and all. I choked down the oddly endearing concoction full of fuzzy brown bits. Asked if I’d like another, I nodded yes.
Three weeks later, she and I lay in front of my fireplace looking at photographs. We took turns pouring Frangelico into tiny glasses until the bottle was empty. We never moved, stayed on the carpet all night long. Neither of us ever drank Frangelico again.
In May, she planned a trip for the weekend. I accused her of being controlling, making unilateral decisions, not letting me have a say in our plans. And anyhow, what could be so fucking important that we’re going to miss Pride? Is there no other weekend we can go? I was so obnoxious that she finally gave in, said we were going to New York. That Saturday would be the one-year anniversary of the night we met. She’d wanted it to be a surprise, special.
Ashamed, I felt like a jerk, apologized over and over again. We both know I’m terrible with dates, right? I asked no more questions, wallowed in remorse for being an ungrateful, surprise-ruining asshole. I told myself to relax, appreciate, enjoy, be loved. We both forgave me.
We took the train from Union Station, three hours of delight. I gazed out the window at blurring grassy fields, bodies of water, fleeting glimpses of neighborhoods as we sped by. I imagined families living in houses that looked out over the tracks. Pictured them at breakfast—toast, cereal, orange juice, coffee; kids dressed and ready for school, backpacks on their backs as they scurried down the steps to catch the bus. Unaware that a complete stranger, on a passing train, fantasized about them.
My head on her shoulder, I was lulled to sleep by the comforting rattling and jostling of the train as it swayed, the muffled sound of the whistle. Just like walking the streets of New York, the journey almost as exciting as the destination.
The two things I insisted we do were simple—walk to the West Village for Magnolia cupcakes, and stop for a slice at Ray’s—pizza, New York’s finest.
She had bigger plans. Okay, maybe not bigger, but definitely better. Saturday morning began with Zabar’s for bagels and coffee, and a tour, her tour of the Reservoir and Central Park. When I’d lived in New York years before I met her, I had run the one-and-a-half-mile loop around the Reservoir countless times. But this time, for the first time, with my bartender tour guide, I stood unmoving, taking in the ethereal beauty of whitish-pink blossoms of Yoshino cherries in bloom. For the next few hours, I was a stranger in a familiar land. How many times had I run six-miles around Central Park, blinders on, lost in thought and movement, exertion, unaware of the beauty all around me?
We hit all the classic destinations—The Shakespeare Garden, awash in purple, yellow, pink, white, and red tulips; crocuses; daffodils; hyacinths; anemones; roses. At The Ramble we walked under a canopy of trees on winding trails, a woodland maze of paths. A piece of wilderness one could never imagine was in the city. She showed me larch and redwood trees in Strawberry Fields. Everywhere we went, she recognized them by name—peonies, violets, rhododendron, and black-eyed Susans; elm, tupelo and maple trees. Sitting on the lawn at Sheep Meadow, she pointed out more cherry blossoms. I pointed out, impishly, the amazing view of the skyline. I did admit, she showed me a New York that I had never known. She assured me she wasn’t done yet.
Sunday morning, we set out for East Sixty-second Street. Our destination, a twelve-foot-wide building which housed an absolute gem of a store, Tender Buttons. She knew that my cookie tin filled with buttons from my childhood was a prized possession. And she knew special. I spent two euphoric hours taking in the wonder of that magical space. Black-and-white checked floor, buttons covering the walls from floor to ceiling, glass and wood display cases and wooden drawers filled with an incomparable display of tiny treasures. Buttons.
On the two-mile walk back to our Hell’s Kitchen hotel, we talked about people’s jobs—elementary school teacher; circus performer; oil rig derrick hand off the coast of Louisiana; court reporter; nurse; piano tuner, farrier. We concluded that how anyone ends up doing what they do is about planning, practice, serendipity, passion, luck.
What if we owned a button store? We’d arrive each day, unlock the heavy padlock, push aside the security gate, step inside the shop in early morning light, before neon overheads and customers, surrounded by buttons. We made a vow—in our next life we’d be button tenders.
On August 31, 2019, a little over seven years after my personal bartender died, Tender Buttons closed for good. I have a picture of us from that New York trip. Standing on 62rd Street, in matching Ray-Bans, young, happy, fearless, with our whole lives ahead of us.
I never adequately thanked my neighbor for that fortuitous date. Nor did I tell my bartender about those kiwis. In our next life, I surely will. And we’ll be button tenders. Definitely button tenders.
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Judith Shapiro spends half the year on the opposite coast, marveling at the sun that sets on the horizon instead of rising. When the novel she’s writing looks the other way, she secretly writes anything else. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work appears in The Citron Review, The New York Times, Bending Genres, The Sun and elsewhere. PeaceInEveryLeaf.com.
© 2025, Judith Shapiro
Halfway Down the Stairs 