Thank god it's Friday. Thank god it's Friday. Thank god it's Friday.

It's been an absolute hellish week, and the politics at work have reached an all-time high. I'm not sure what it is, but it seems that everyone has been on edge about something or the other. Could it be the war? Could it be the weather? Could it be that the week just wasn't over fast enough?

Stress, stress, stress. Can you feel it?

I can't wait for the day to be over. Not only because it's been extremely hectic and especially tense at work the past few days but also because I'm heading out of the city today to a conference and post-conference-mini-vacation in sunny California. Can we all agree I need a bit of R&R?

Palm Springs, here I come.

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Every few years or so, my father would take to varnishing the wood floors of our house. The house itself, bearing the brunt of tropical island weather, would be in terrible need of a few fixes here and there, and by far the best part about fixing these things was the floors.

We would all chip in, moving our things from one room to the next, rearranging furniture from one area to another, and generally stripping bare the room of its belongings. Next came the scrubbing of the floors, and how they were scrubbed! Even now I can hear the music of the scrubbing brushes as they are dipped into buckets of soap water and played across the hardwood floors in rhythmic dance. Shoosh-shoosh-shoosh they would go.

Then came the magical part, the part where paintbrushes were dipped into cans of clear, brown liquid and so carefully applied as though painting the face of a beautiful princess. This I would watch in awe, dreaming of the day I would be old enough to be given such godly responsibility. Soon enough, the entire floor would be glistening and new, and I was witness to its transformation.

My father would cordon off the new floor, warning us to not set foot there until he was satisfied it was dry. He would let it sit for a couple or more days depending on how humid the weather was, and I would tiptoe by every few hours, stealing a touch and marveling at my fingerprints left like fossils in a cave.

I longed for when my father would give the okay for me to slide across the new floor.

Some twenty or so odd years later I am getting the same anxious jitters. The floor guys worked over the past couple days, sanding and coating my apartment floors with brilliant shiny newness. I checked on it this morning, and it was beautiful under the morning sunlight. I can hardly wait for this afternoon, when I will go home to see it again. I can hardly wait to go dancing on it. I can hardly wait to slide across my new floor, the floor that's dry but looks so wet.

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I got in early today and plopped myself down at my desk, vaguely aware of the gentle and familiar whirring of the computer as it started up. A colleague greeted me. "How's your morning?" she asked.

"Thankfully it's the middle of the week," I said.

"Uhm, nearly."

I smiled as I settled into my chair, the steam and gentle aroma of brewing tea leaves wafting up from the warm cup below. Soon enough, the computer was done with its wakeup routine, and I pulled up my calendar to check on my Wednesday appointments. That's when I realized it was Tuesday.

Fuck, I hate it when that happens.

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The old man sits on the bench, his eyes glazed and heavy, his tan overcoat filthy and tattered beyond repair. He is talking into the dank emptiness around him, and his hands gesticulate wildly as he mutters aloud. I cannot understand him.

It is seven o'clock tonight and the train is stopped at Hunters Point. Rush hour is over, and only a handful of passengers board as I take the earphones out of my left ear, pressing the pause button on my iPod so I can listen to the man's voice. The platform is ghostly empty save his huddled, tired form on the bench, and the fluorescent lamp overhead makes for exaggerated shadows as though on a performer on stage.

I am uncomfortable.

I shut my eyes for a moment and will the doors to close, but they remain open so I can see the old man and his dirty shoes. Everyone on the train is silent, and I hear only his voice as it rises and falls in unsettling cadence, echoing off the station's white-tiled walls.

Soon enough a voice crackles over the intercom and the doors close in unison. I turn slowly away and think of the old man and his dirty coat and his dirty shoes and his heavy, tired eyes. I wonder if anyone was listening to what he had to say. I wonder about the last meal he has probably eaten. I wonder if he even knows who he is.

And as the train begins to pull away from the station, I glance back to him, the solitary performer waving his hands into the air, and I am suddenly overcome with a terrible, terrible sadness.

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The war has begun. And while we're on the topic of unspeakable acts of horror, I lived last night through a gay man's worst nightmare. We all know that feeling, the feeling of pure, unadulterated terror. The racing heartbeat, the trembling of hands, the shaking of knees, the sudden breakout into cold, cold sweat.

Last night I went to a bachelor party.

Okay, so it wasn't as bad as I had feared, and the quantities of alcohol imbibed over the duration of six hours certainly helped dull the images of two naked women giving a colleague what they called "earmuffs." Earmuffs? Use your imagination.

And the worst part? I had not one, not two, but three rather large hamburgers. Oh, and two small fries.

My diet is shot to hell.

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On the way to work this morning, I stop at the fruit vendor on 51st and Lexington. I give a brief look at his offerings and delicately pick four of the best bananas from the selection of apples, pears, plums and nuts so carefully set out and colourful under the early morning sun. All around me, people are dressed in green, and a troupe of bagpipers plays across the street, the notes rising up between the skyscrapers and into the splendid springlike weather.

I reach into my wallet for a single dollar bill. Oh no. I have only a twenty, and I offer it to the vendor, sheepish and apologizing profusely for the large bill. "Would you mind? This is all I have," I say. He shrugs and raises an eyebrow.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. It belongs to the woman behind me, a beautiful black woman with striking eyes and beautiful lips. "I've got you," she says, smiling.

"Sorry?"

"Don't worry, I'll get them for you. A twenty is too much for him." The vendor smiles. "How much," the lady says, "for him and me? Together."

I laugh an awkward laugh as I stare into her eyes, hypnotized by how exquisitely formed they are. "Thanks so much," I say. "Thanks so much."

And she smiles at me again as we part ways, her with her plums and me with my bananas, into the crisp Manhattan air.

She must know it's my day today, St. Patrick's Day. Happy Monday, all.

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For about three weeks now I've been on the Atkins diet, cutting carbs from my meals as much as I possibly can. A banana for breakfast, grilled chicken and veggies for lunch and dinner, and absolutely zero dessert of any sort. Despite an incredibly uncontrollable sweet tooth, it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be, and I've been feeling much healthier since I started. In fact, I've lost an inch or two off the old waistline, and I've even reclaimed a few pairs of trousers that I had given up on.

So imagine my horror when I showed up to work Tuesday morning and found my workspace filled with stacks and stacks of freakin delicious Girl Scout cookies. My officemates and I had ordered boxes and boxes of them a few months ago to help the daughter of one of our colleagues, and we had all forgotten about the orders until yesterday when the damn things appeared on our desks.

Now I've been sitting here at my desk for the past couple of days, stacks and stacks of Thin Mints, Samoas, Tagalongs, Do-si-dos and Trefoils mocking me and singing songs such as "Don't You Really Want to Eat Me?" and "Your Colleagues Love Us, Why Don't You?" I've been good so far, succumbing not even once to their little siren songs, but I don't know how much longer I can hold out. If my officemates don't eat all of them soon, someone's gonna get seriously hurt.

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So it's done. The Manhattan apartment is now empty. And clean. Emptier and cleaner than we've ever seen it.

We woke up early this morning to do some last-minute packing, throwing shirts, towels, socks, toothbrushes, pillows, blankets and a few dust bunnies into the remaining boxes and bags we had stashed away just for today. Then we scrubbed and dusted and sprayed and wiped and swept. The apartment sparkled like a gem despite the dark gray clouds covering the skies and the heavy rains falling outside our window. Splish, splash, splish, splash. The little people below trudged dutifully to work as we said our goodbyes.

Before we left, we wrote a little sign for the new owners, a spritely couple well into their eighties. "Welcome home," we said.

Then it was time to go. We looked out the window as we surveyed the space one last time. The heavy rains had turned to snow. And then, without once looking back, we headed silently out the door and into the swirling mass of white.

Thanks 11M, for the wonderful years. We miss you already.

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There's a little dog that lives a few doors down in Apartment 11U. He's a handsome dog, a hound of some sort, with smart brown spots on his back and big floppy ears that touch the ground when he lowers his head.

He owns two people, this dog, and he's kind enough to let them live with him in his apartment down the hallway. One of these people, an older gentleman who likes to wear tan trenchcoats when it's cold, smiles at me whenever he sees me. The other person, the gentleman's wife, I hardly ever see.

Sometimes I see the pair of them, the dog and the man together, walking in the little park near the building. He's always on a leash, walking ahead of the man as though to let him know who's the boss. But it's hardly necessary; everyone knows who's the boss.

The little dog with the smart brown spots loves to exercise. I know this because every night at exactly 10:30, I hear the scampering of little feet outside in the hallway. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, they go, back and forth, up and down the hallway. It's like clockwork the way he exercises, this little dog. Sometimes I know the time just from hearing the muffled sounds outside my door as he races from one end to the next. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, it must be 10:30.

When he exercises, the little dog has the older gentleman stand with a ball at one end of the hallway and the wife at the other end. Okay, ready? Now throw the ball to her, he seems to say. The man obediently rolls the ball down to his wife, and the little dog chases after it as fast as his little legs can carry him. Flop, flop, flop go his ears. Now it's the wife's turn to roll the ball down the hallway back to the man. Ready? Go! Back and forth, up and down, for fifteen minutes. Flop, flop, flop, pitter-patter, it must be 10:30.

Once I got home from work in the middle of his routine. The elevator doors opened to the eleventh floor just as the ball was rolling by, and the little dog came to a sudden stop at my feet, startled that someone had joined so suddenly mid-chase. He looked as though embarrassed that I had caught him running indoors, and he sniffed at my shoes briefly as the older gentleman smiled at me. Then he raced after the ball again, watching me carefully out of the corner of his eye. Hurry along now, nothing to see, he seemed to say.

I'm going to miss my canine neighbour, the one with the smart brown spots who races nightly and lets me know exactly what time it is.

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The door to Apartment 11T has a strange lock. And inside Apartment 11T, protected by this strange lock, lives a strange woman. She's seems to be in her late forties, this strange woman, with wispy blond hair that floats over her face and makes her look like a fairy.

She never talks, this strange lady, and she walks around quietly, never uttering as much as a hello or comment about the weather outside. She only smiles and nods as she passes you in the hallway. There she goes, you'd think, smiling and nodding at the world as she passes you in her bedroom slippers and red silk housedress. Isn't she strange?

Rumour has it she's a high-class prostitute.

It's hard to believe she's a lady of the night, my neighbour, but the steady stream of men into and out of her apartment makes me wonder. The steady stream of older men who stare at their shoes in the elevator to avoid eye contact and hide their wedding bands in their pockets before they leave. They never wear their wedding bands. I don't know why; it's not like she'd care if they were married.

She's always smiling so pleasantly, the strange lady, but she never says anything to me.

I imagine that she must have been quite beautiful in her younger days, and quite popular with the boys, too. I dream sometimes of the youth of her yesteryear, her slender arms and legs wrapped impassioned around a summer lover. I dream of her hair and her silky dresses and her simple, quiet smile. I dream for her.

Once I got to peek inside her apartment. It was bathed in dark red velvets and satins, and there were a few candles burning quietly in the corner. Quiet candles for a quiet woman. I thought it romantic. I sometimes think of cupping an ear to my neighbour's door, the door with the strange lock, to see what the throes of paid passion sounded like. But I never do.

She seems so dignified, my neighbour, the strange lady who says nothing. So dignified and lonely. I wonder if she has any family nearby, or any family at all. I wonder if they know what she does. I wonder if she's happy with the choices she's made and the men who go in and out of her door. I wonder what her rates are. Certainly from the looks of it, she's not doing too badly, and I'm happy for her. Someone's gotta pay the bills, something's gotta pay the bills, somehow. She gets by doing what she does best, I suppose.

I'm going to miss my prostitute neighbour, the one with the wispy blond hair and shy smile, the one who always seems so sad and lonely.

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Our neighbour a few doors over in Apartment 11V is a forty-something man with a penchant for black men. I've never said more than a few words to him, really, but he always has a few handy pleasantries pocketed away just in case he needs them.

Cold today, isn't it? Beautiful day today, huh? Too bad about that rain outside.

It's always about the weather.

He's always cleaning his apartment to opera or jazz, and in the four years we've been here, I've never seen him go to work. He just always seems to be at home, cleaning.

Every now and then as I'm waiting for the elevator, I'd hear a cackle escape from under his door along with bits of a high-pitched, excited conversation. I always imagined him on the phone with his sister, him pacing back and forth with his right hand gesticulating wildly as they chatted about the latest cleaning detergents and jazz and how wonderful the weather was in Oklahoma.

Oh really? A snowstorm in Tulsa? And yes, I love the new lime-scented Lysol. It's simply divine with Dinah Washington on Monday evenings.

I began noticing the men waltzing in and out of his apartment about two years ago when I first took interest in his comings and goings. They're always young, virile men, each different from the last, always good-looking and in great shape. And always black. If you wait at the elevator long enough, you'd eventually see one of them emerge and head to 11V. The door would open and you'd hear mellow jazz for just a second as the young man slipped in.

About four weeks ago, as I was leaving for work, I passed a strikingly handsome and strapping young black man in the lobby. His high cheekbones gave him a rugged, exotic look, and his dark complexion was clear and radiant. Even under his heavy coat I could tell how well-built and toned his body was. This was by far my neighbour's best to date, I thought. He's certainly moving up in quality. And so early in the morning, too.

I sometimes think about what goes on behind those doors when one of his visitors stops by. Do they discuss the latest weather trends across the north-east? Trading oven-cleaning secrets, perhaps? And how do they segue into the sex? I imagine all this happening with Ella crooning "Say It Isn't So" softly in the background.

I lingered a second as the beautiful man with the exotic cheekbones and good skin walked up to the front desk. Yes, I thought as I admired him, my neighbour would definitely like this one. He leaned over to the front-desk man and whispered. "Eleven vee, please," he said. "Just visiting." I gave one more look-over and smiled as I headed out into the morning.

I'm going to miss my gay neighbour, the one who loves beautiful black men.

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It's dark in the apartment this morning. I'm sitting in the living room now, the Dixie Chicks wailing sad love songs on repeat. Outside, the skies are gray and rain is falling hard but I cannot hear it from the eleventh floor. Boxes lie scattered here and there, marked with cryptic codes and scribbling. The movers are coming tomorrow.

The time has finally come, and we're finally moving out of the Manhattan apartment and into Forest Hills this week.

One of the things I'm going to miss is Mama's Famous, the little diner on 67th and Amsterdam. We've become regulars there, and they all know us. The owner, a stout little Greek man with a wonderful laugh, has taken to bringing me my usual bowl of minestrone without prompting as soon as I sit down. "You want this, yes?" he smiles. I laugh. "And of course I remember the Tabasco." And he puts down a tiny bottle of McIlhenny's red hot sauce on the table. "You want the grilled chicken this time? With mustard, yes?" He guesses my order right most of the times, but every once in a while I throw him a twist, just to keep him on his toes.

Last Friday evening, as Greg and I sat eating a lazy dinner at Mama's, we talked about how much we'd miss the neighbourhood, the little things we've grown so accustomed to, the little habits that we've formed, and the people we've come to know: our Austrian neighbour who we've never really known but always said a pleasant hello to, the strange woman and her even stranger dog with the plastic flower attached on its leash, the friendly front-desk man who always greeted us with a smile and a good evening. And as night fell around us, I looked up at the neon sign on the window. "Fresh pastries and cappuccino," it said. The red and white lights played softly off Greg's face and the deep evening blue of the Manhattan skies beyond. I smiled.

We're going to miss this place.

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