Dear Diary:
I was visiting a friend in New York when I had an encounter with projectile fruit.
It was about 5:30 p.m. on a broiling Saturday afternoon when it happened. That morning she and I rode the subway from her place in Brooklyn to Lower Manhattan. We admired the Freedom Towers, then enjoyed a few drinks by the South Street Seaport. Afterward, and never minding the heat or our own self-respect, we cabbed to Chinatown for a quick bite.
After the roofs of our mouths were sufficiently scorched by General Tso's pork, kung pao chicken and soup dumplings, we had the great idea of walking back to Brooklyn.
Midway over the Manhattan Bridge, as I spotted the Statue of Liberty in the distance, I heard a whiz, and then felt a slap on my left shoulder. I turned and caught the final split second of a yellow arm clinging to my sleeve, like a climber to the side of a mountain. Then, the banana peel hit the floor.
The sated culprit above head sped by, surely never knowing his or her discarded snack almost took me out.
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