I walked back from the bar past J's apartment on 79th Street. Its awning jutted at me from across the street, menacing kind of. I wondered how weird it'd be if she saw me there. What are you doing here? Nothing. I'm walking home from a bar. As the cab curved through Central Park I wondered if A. had been the right girl for me. I thought maybe. The one so far. But so what? When I got home the apartment was unlit and quiet but the air was ripe with the warm, heady odor of a freshly showered body. Soap hung almost cloyingly in the kitcheny darkness. The smell was something wonderful that I wanted to hold up by its arms, its arms against its sides, to hold up and to praise and to glorify.