Duke: Like a genie. Incidentally, you’d look good in a genie costume. Just saying.

Angel: You’d look good in many costumes—an earl, a prince, a pirate, a bandit, a highwayman . . .

Duke: You have such a fascination with olden times.

Angel: Yes, I do. Regency, Victorian, historical—give me breeches and I’m a-swooning.

Duke: Next time, I’ll be donning a waistcoat and a top hat.

Angel: I fainted in a most ladylike fashion. See? It really does work.

Duke: Excellent, m’lady.

Angel: Also, I’m so sorry I hurt your wrist with that hard twist I gave. That was cruel of me.

Duke: Now that I think of it, maybe that’s not why my wrist hurts. :)

Angel: You’re naughty.

Duke: Naughty? Me? Why would you say that?

Angel: Your wrist hurts? Okay, my fingers hurt!

Duke: My wrist hurts from racquetball. Did you think I meant something else?

Angel: You know what I think you meant.

Duke: Spell it out for me. What did you think I was doing that made my wrist sore?

Angel: Gee. I wonder.

Duke: You need to get your mind out of the gutter, Angel.

Angel: You led it there, Duke.

Duke: Somehow, I think you can find the gutter on your own.

Angel: Guilty as charged. But back to favorite places. Why do you want me to pick one?

Duke: Hello? Our next interview. You’re allergic to offices, and since I took you to one of my favorite spots, it’s your turn to choose one for our next chat. Name some.

Angel: My favorite place in all of New York City is New York City. :)

Duke: Clever.

Angel: But I’d also have to add Central Park, the hidden underground gin joint in Chelsea, the small Elevator Museum in Tribeca, the Starry Night locksmith in the West Village, one of the street artists in the East Village, the Met, and I think I would probably also love Gramercy Park.

Duke: Tomorrow, let’s do the Elevator Museum. I’ve never been.

Angel: I’ll be there.

Duke: Also, why did you say you think you’d like Gramercy Park?

Angel: It sounds lovely, but I’ve never been there.

Duke: You haven’t?

Angel: It’s a private park. You need a key.

Duke: I have one.

* * *

I stare in disbelief at the former freight elevator shaft that’s now a strange museum. “It’s actually an elevator. And it’s the size of a car.”

She nods, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she bounces on her pink-booted feet. Pink boots I want to see on my shoulders.

I blink away the filthy thought, even though it’ll surely return in seconds.

“It’s the smallest museum in all of New York. It’s five square meters,” she says as we step inside and ogle the odd displays lining all three walls.

“And it’s weird. Admit it. This is intensely weird.” I spin in a circle, gesturing to the tubes of toothpaste on the shelves, the crushed coffee cups and bags of potato chips. Each object has a letter and a number in front of it, like you could enter it on a vending machine keypad.