Gregory Greenleaf

I'm on findagrave.com, the site where you can, well, find a grave. The photo of the tombstone on my screen is gray and rather tall and narrow, like a nail clipper. OK, maybe that's a forced simile, but it fits this moment nicely.

"Do I have anything between my teeth?" Allison asks. She is preparing to go to the gym and has just eaten a poppy seed bagel for breakfast. I am sitting at the kitchen counter, also eating a poppy seed bagel. As I munch on my own bagel, she stands before me and gives me a radiant smile that allows me a good view of all her teeth.

Sometimes I look to the past for inspiration. Like here on Page 84 from the July 26, 1925, New York Times. The ad fills up more than three-quarters of the page and includes four photographs.

I am at an ice cream stand, one spot away from placing my order. Ahead of me a father of four little kids passes along a smorgasbord of ice cream orders that were, moments ago, passed along to him by a teenage boy who works behind the ice cream window. The father wisely pulls gobs and gobs of napkins from the napkin dispenser, then grabs his own shake and begins to walk away — but not before relaying to the teenager the following sincere message: "I appreciate you!"

I am walking my new golden retriever puppy, Teddy, on Cundy's Harbor Road. It is Teddy's first walk, and as he bounds along, I struggle not to get bound up by his leash.

My name is Fred and I am a vacuum robot. I am connected to the internet and can send text messages to Gregory's phone if something goes wrong when I am cleaning Gregory's house.

On the morning of my 54th birthday, I found a dead mouse underneath my birdfeeder. Besides being dead, the mouse looked fine. Who or what caused its death? Our cats stay indoors. There were no signs of meteor impact where I found the body.

I am at the checkout counter at Twice Told Tales used bookshop in Brunswick. In my hand is the second volume of Edmund Morris' three-volume set about the life of Theodore Roosevelt. The volunteer cashier, an older woman, hair turned white from wisdom, takes my book and requests $5.

I am in a New York City hotel elevator that is heading down from the 19th floor to the first floor. My attention is not trained on the people coming into and going out of the elevator but instead on a small notice taped to the wall about head high. On it are the words, "A copy of the elevator inspection permit is located at the front desk."