here is a heavyset man, maybe in his 40s, who sits outside on a fold-out chair and sings old standards to himself. He stares up all afternoon--at the sun, at the berry tree that hangs over his porch--in his undershirt and terrycloth shorts, his fleshy white thighs splayed open. I used to try to say hi, but he just stared at me blankly. Now, I just pass and let him sing. “Strangers in the Night” seems to be a favorite.

There is the woman who runs Millie’s Minnie Mart. But I don’t think her name is Millie.

There are two old Polish men on my street. It’s easy to get them confused, because they both wear pageboy caps and dawdle around the sidewalk. But one has dementia, and once told me a long story about his wife dying. The next time I saw him he scowled at me and walked away. The other one is much friendlier, and I used to think he was a sweetheart until I passed him one day and he whispered to me, “Nice tits.” I avoid both these men.

There are the cute hipster boys at the coffeeshop. But I’m kind of over them.

There are two adorable six-year-old twin girls with pigtails downstairs. One is shy, one is precocious. That one is always wanting hugs, wanting to pet my cat. Once she knocked on my door, and I let her come inside, and when her grandmother found her, she slapped her wrist so sharply that the little girl let out a howl. That was unfortunate. She’s the only one whose name I know, because I am always hearing her grandmother yell out, “Jess-eee-cahhh!” over and over again. She’s a handful. She left a Barbie bandaid stuck to my my welcome mat. It took me three days to decide to pick it off.

Anyway, there are other people, but those are the ones who come to mind. I’m going to go for a walk now, and see every one of them.