One afternoon not long ago, I was walking with my partner near Times Square and we were approached by a man passing out leaflets. “Take one for your mom,” he said to my partner.
I stopped cold. “What did you say?” Sonja’s arm was around my shoulder, and I wriggled free to face the man head on. “Do you think I’m her mother?” The man looked into my eyes.
He was probably 40 — 10 years younger than I am. I was wearing a mask. I pulled it down. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stammered.
Sonja tugged at me to leave. We did, but once we were halfway down the block, the man followed us to try one more stab at reconciliation.