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In the park and in the room the heat was the same. It pressed on their arms, their faces. They sat by the open window in the dark room. Across the air shaft the garment factory kept up its roar and lights most of the night. From time to time workers came out on the ledge and passed a bottle back and forth.

Iris lit a cigarette. Matthew watched the glow move from her mouth to the window sill. Behind them the child slept sprawled naked on a sleeping bag beside the bed. A prostitute had spoken to the child that morning as they were leaving the hotel. “You like to suck your thumb. I used to suck my thumb when I was little.” She was accompanied by an old man.

“Ain’t you pretty!” She turned to Iris “There’s a good cheap breakfast place if you’re new in town. It’s over there.” She pointed. Iris and Matthew had ordered two breakfasts and shared with child. After that they had taken a bus to the Guggenheim Museum.

A Micro Sculpture in a space full of sun from sky lights! An exhibit of Paul Klepainbeege, soft sculptures by Arop! Mettle people by Joquainetti!

They walked back to save the bus fare. Along Fifth Avenue doormen in livery greeted people arriving in limousines on the other side of the street. A woman ran along the path at the edge of Central Park. Her blouse was torn and she was missing two front teeth.

All in one breath Iris had written her experience of the city. It was a crude poem, too abbreviated but it carried the impact, the multiple layers and directness of the people and active streets. They ate cheese and rolls in the park. When the heat had not lessened after dark they decided to get drunk.

“What should we buy?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve only had wine. Except once when someone gave me vodka.”

“Vodka isn’t supposed to have much taste.”

They tried it with ice first. It tasted wretched. They brought two bottles of seven-up from the machine in the hotel lobby and found it made the vodka more agreeable.