After one sweet, decadent honey truffle on a little white plate and a hot slice of Mel Cooley straight from the oven, we dusted the polenta off our fingers and took the B express in the direction of Brooklyn. I hadn’t taken the B in months. We had to get off at Atlantic, but there was some thrill in knowing we could have, had we stayed on, gone all the way to Brighton Beach. As we click-clacked along the Manhattan Bridge, crossing the East River in the evening dark, a siren wailed by beside us. Laureen looked about, startled. “Is that the subway police?” she said. “Um,” I said, as some guy squished in next to us chortled, “well, we’re above ground.”

At BAM, Rosalind was gangly and awkward and all the more lovely and modern for it.

I would like to believe that it is possible for love.