“Because having the planner makes you happy.” He says this so flatly. Stochastically. What if he had been in the marketing meeting where this idea was proposed? Probably everyone would have vaporized from the sheer force of his displeasure.

“I think that’s the idea.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

I nod, look down at my notebook. It’ll be fine, to do this alone. Good for me, even.

He clears his throat, waits for me to look up at him. He fixes me with eyes that are, for the moment, not so sad. And then he says, “It’s ridiculous, but I’ll do it.”

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I text Reid to meet me by The Garment Worker, a big, bronze statue of an older man in a yarmulke, bent in work over a hand-operated sewing machine, a loving tribute to the workers who made the textile industry in New York what it once was. It soothes me to wait by this particular piece of art, since in general Midtown has never been my speed—even when it’s blocks away Times Square is still a shouty, ocular migraine-inducing shadow, too many honking horns and flashing lights and tourists doing incomprehensible things like actually enjoying themselves in the madness. But even though this is still a pretty loud spot, especially on a Wednesday afternoon, I’m comforted by the quiet stillness of the sculpture. And since I’ve arrived a half hour early—as if I’m trying to out-anal-retentive my companion—I’ve had a lot of time to be comforted.

I’ve spent most of that time considering two things: one is the list of addresses I copied out, comparing it to the map on my phone and reviewing the path I’ve set out for our walk. If I’ve got it right—and this is questionable, since one never really knows whether a hand-painted sign will have faded into oblivion, or whether some new build has since blocked its visibility—Reid and I should be able to see at least a dozen signs today. Whether I like the neighborhood or not, the Garment District has a lot to offer in the way of signage, and there’s even a few—one from a 1960s dress shop in particular—that have drawings included. My list makes me feel productive, prepared. Ready to meet the challenge and to meet Reid on firmer ground, a shared goal between us.

The other consideration is the fact that, as a human woman, I would of course wake up with two new pimples on my forehead on the same day I have something important to do, and with someone I want to look presentable for. This latter consideration, obviously, is not a productive line of thinking, unless you consider my reaching up to touch them every forty-five seconds productive.