Friday, July 19, 2002


My left shoulder has been aching for about a week. I finally went to see my doctor, the energetic Dr. Ng. Took a ferry from Hoboken to the World Financial Center...where Jeff and I used to meet all the time when we were courting. It's still hard to go there, though you can feel the ferocious attempts to return to normalcy everywhere--the arts festival, the very very clear signage about what's open, even the new memorial to the Irish Potato Famine. I took a cab from the WFC to my dr. The cabbie, a chatty guy in shades, asked--after I told him that I was headed to the dr.---if I was pregnant. (One of those questions men are very infrequently asked.) Nope, I said. My dog is my baby. As we reached the intersection of Wall St. and the South Street Seaport, we both stared at one of lower Manhattan's arts institutions--a wall of flickering numbers, laid out like a calendar. But the numbers weren't flickering.

"The calendar's broken," the cabbie said. Then he looked again. "No, it isn't. It's just: only the 9 and the 11 lit up."


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