As you're on your way home from the grocery store at the bottom of the hill in the early morning on the day after Christmas, with your black canvas bag of egg noodles and raisins and borwn sugar and broccolini slung over your shoulder, you will pass other pedestrians headed in the opposite direction. At first, you will pretend to ignore the approaching pedestrian. You will look past him or her. You will occasionally glance at your feet, as if they might have gone somewhere while you were distracted by thoughts of the cinnamon rolls that you're planning on making when you get home. You will turn your head to watch the flight of a passing bird.
But at the last moment, when between three and five steps separate you from the other, you will flick your eyes sideways. At this precise moment, if you have timed it properly, you will meet their gaze, because the other person will have done the same thing. You will smile faintly. He will nod once. You will both say "morning," softly, and with a pleasant inflection. If you get it to come out simultaneously, a conspiratorial wink is allowed, as a form of celebration.
You will pass, and continue on your way.
You will go home and climb the stairs and open the windows on the cool gray morning, a peculiar St. Stephen's Day morning for New England, indeed, because it wasn't so long ago that you would have frozen to death if you did anything that dumb.
And you'll make cinnamon rolls and croissants, and listen to music, and think about what else you need to do today.
(This is how you say good morning to a Yankee.)