This set of flats in the East Village has an elevator guy. It smells of money but is small in a way that shocks me. A recurring theme. I get an email that upsets me. I meet a colleague before the book launch at said flat and then we head to a Peruvian restaurant on 1st Avenue and talk about Alphabet City. We head to a bar and then I walk up Broadway and randomly go into a place to get a panini and the guy is from Punjab, could be my Dad, almost, is the same kind of age, has lived in NY 27 years. I buy some Lucky Strike but they are the kind with no filter. I keep thinking about that email, check my Inbox: there’s another. From my room, I hear sirens, people, road noise. CNN on the TV, the talk is all about the Zimmerman case. I bought a Joan Didion novel and read some of it at the Chelsea Market but all I can really remember is that the woman who served didn’t say please or thank you once. New York, then. I wait.