Waren needed to talk to his wife. Desperately needed it. But she wasn’t coming back before the next Tuesday and lately their conversations over the phone had lost the intensity this talk needed. No thanks, I don’t need shampoo.

He had been pacing the apartment and he could very well tell it wasn’t a post-industrial loft. It didn’t matter how many Woody Allen films they would keep on watching, it’s wasn’t going to achieve what they had looked for when they moved here. In New York City ,dude.

Frankly, Waren argued to himself, speaking to his wife through his inner thoughts, you’ve read so many books set in Brooklyn, that you would almost be able to turn up at any butcher’s shop in the borough, and tell the man about his grandfather’s childhood in Warsaw. None of them dared complaining, though. They were too afraid of being unfair to each other. Each one believing that the other was the most pitiful character of the story.