Marian and I came home from our bars and traded cocktail napkins like playing cards. Hers was drawn by a thin girl who thought she was a Satanist. It was a drawing of a fantasy creature. “A lemur person,” the girl had said, and signed it, “-Rabid.”

After I poured myself another glass of wine, she sat beside me and said I looked depressed and really should move out of New York City.

When you move to a new neighborhood in New York City, figuring out your new laundromat usually happens at night, when you are still living amongst boxes and new people and cats and suddenly you realize you forgot you promised to cover the morning shift for your lush boss, and all of your clothes are dirty.