Late afternoon was spent wandering the cobblestone streets downtown with a certain someone, sucking on fresh-fruit smoothies, trying on Gucci knock-off sunglasses and floppy hats, holding hands through the crosswalk, avoiding the sunny side of the street for the shade. “What are you going to write tomorrow?” he asked me, and I said I didn’t yet know. They’re uprooting the center of Houston Street and there are gaping holes, orange construction roadblocks, and huge machines moving tanks of dirt, but once past all that it’s quiet. A girl cried when her boyfriend left her, and she waited alone for their drink order. She said she was sorry, E told me. But for what? I wanted to know. But why? On the corner, necklaces hold photographs of trees and statues from Central Park, and of the Empire State Building, which can be glimpsed from our street, but I refrained, since I can’t spare 40 dollars. Now home, and the fan has a direct shot of my face. There are no dogs barking. I will not check my work e-mail again. Tomorrow—I’ll decide what to write then.