This night, though, was the odd window when you lived in New York, and I did too, although we lived in two New Yorks, when we were both two people with jobs and nothing to do but go to work the next day, when we were both whole and not so sad, when tomorrow stood before us, stupidly, decidedly open. Before nothing was decided. Before the future. Before the moving truck. Before the baby. You always lived in places you felt only slightly strongly about, or felt nothing at all. This place, too, far uptown. Except there was one good Mexican restaurant. And one good bar, there, at the end of the A train.