We take a shower. When the weather is this dauntingly cold, It’s nice standing in the hot stream. I am proud of myself for having maintained this apartment’s constitution throughout my time here in New York where everything is more difficult and you really have to keep your eyes open for opportunities like the one I have at the smoke shop that lets me embrace a regularized energy and not kill myself serving the demands that this city imposes with its tourists and status.

Musette asks me while we’re in there if I want to get food.

I tell her that we don’t have to, that there is leftover Indian food in the fridge. She knows this. I can’t tell if the recommendation is for my own sake or because of her cabin fever. Obviously it’s both. We had such great plans: the massive Black Tap sundaes, the MoMA calendars, and whatever else it was that she had up her sleeve for us to do.

I guess we can go out, I tell her. It’s the least, but also the most, that I can do.  


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