Broadway was freezing by the time my shift ended at The Belasco Theatre. I felt my pockets for my leather gloves. I was sure I had them on the way into work….
It wasn’t easy earning a living in the Big Apple. Even with this usher gig, I could barely cover my bills every month. I’d really wanted a pair of red gloves to match my purse, but I could only afford one pair and black was more practical. Now I didn’t even have those.
Weeks later, rushing to make a weekday matinee, I almost stepped on a pair of red-leather gloves lying on Eighth Avenue. I picked them up and looked around to see who dropped them. People pushed past me, not paying me or the gloves any mind.
Except for two older women. “We saw you find them!” one of them said. “Aren’t you lucky!”
“I should leave them somewhere,” I said. “In case the owner comes back.”
“By the time she realizes the gloves are gone, honey,” the other lady assured me, “she won’t even know where to look. Trust me, those gloves were meant for you. They even match your purse!”
The women waved to me as they wandered off. I stayed there in the street for several more minutes, just in case someone came to claim them. Finally I gave up and put them on. They fit…like a glove.
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