My sister and I step briskly out of the greengrocer to get away from the men in line behind us who have told us, in great detail, what they’d like to do to us, where they intend
to put certain parts of their bodies. The clerk, kindly, rings their purchases up slowly, so Cyndy and I have a chance to hurry across the street, almost bumping into two men who are breaking raw eggs in their hands and leaning over to slip the viscous mess into their mouths.
One of those Manhattan nights, I think.
Earlier today, as Cyndy and I were taxiing away from Grand Central to her apartment in Chelsea, we were thrilled, saying: “New York. It’s so great. Look at the dirt! Look at the guy peeing in the alley! I love it!” A joke, sure, but only partially. We’d just spent a claustrophobic weekend with our parents and our other two siblings in the Berkshires. The occasion, I guess, was Cyndy’s mastectomy last week.
