A car pulls out ahead on 7th street, a spot around the block in just a few minutes. The east village simmers around me, how small avenue B looks, like a movie set after the rain. Four flights up, the little apartment remains, the plants survive. I revel in returning home, in having a home. Jet lagged, I stay up, letting my fingers get pruny with New York City, with 16 years of love under our belt.
I do not sleep.
This is why we get along.
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