He was always a stealth nose picker. That’s how I recognize him, this man I pass each day during my walk around the Harlem Meer. I see him in rain, sun, snow, and fog, along with the greedy geese looking for a handout, who leave shiny turds in their paths, and the bushes of sparrows making a racket, the woman with two rottweilers in heavy metal choke collars, and the man with a land turtle on a leash.

He always sits on a bench beside a defunct fountain. When I pass, he glances at me with a flicker of recognition. He’s heavier now, with a pink skull edged with grey wisps rather than a full head of deep brown waves. But the way he lifts his left thumb to his right nostril and digs hasn’t changed. It recalls our brief affair. Our long showers; his Yemeni coffee. We split when his old girlfriend returned.

I don’t think he’ll ever realize who I am. I’m old now too, with dark hair rather than blonde and jowls instead of cheekbones. I wear a hat pulled down over my brow. One day I’ll let him know, but now the secret is still inside me, like the baby he never knew he fathered. I raised him alone, and now he’s grown and living across the country. Last time I saw my son, he sat across from me in a booth in a diner. When he lifted his left thumb to his nose, I stopped him.