I locked myself out of the office I was working in tonight.

"You call," he said, pointing upward with one hand and making a telephone against his head with the other, thumb in his ear, pinky pointed at his mouth.

"That's just it," I explain. "I'm the only one left."

He laughs.

"Then I see you tomorrow. Good night!"

I walked east on 20th street feeling like the king of New York. Though it was only quarter past ten, I was alone on the street. My posture was the best it had been all day. The temperature was so perfect that I thought of nothing but the city around me. How rare in a city where sunny 70 degree days are followed by days of snow!

I saw five mexicans, boys and men, sitting silently against the windows and doors of a closed menswear outlet on lower fifth avenue. Down the street a group of guys passed me, walking the opposite direction up the street. They were beefy guys with short gelled hair. They ranged in ethnicity from white all the way to half-white, half-asian. I overheard one of them say as they passed, "I could fuck every day if it was different women." I thought they might kick the mexicans, or spit on them, but nobody made a move. On a night like tonight, even beefy misogynist consumers of gel minded their own business.

When I got to Union square I walked through an unmarked field of muscular man-boys, all naked from the waist up, all with skateboards. Those who intended to skate where I walked held back, patiently, one foot on their boards, one foot on the ground, as I crossed.

Couples were out as though it were some kind of new romantic holiday. Nobody was bored, or angry, or sad, or too good for their dates. Everyone looked excited and nervous and dumb and secretly happy, like the whole city had never kissed a girl before, had never kissed a boy. Like they didn't want their dates to know how giddy they were, but had a hard time not showing it. Every couple on the street had lousy love poker faces. Nobody fought or cried or shook loose a holding hand to angrily hail a cab. Every couple was on their first date.

In the subway, everyone wanted to go home. Everyone thought of the bills they had to pay, or the exes that didn't miss them, or the mess they were going home to, or worse things that I couldn't imagine because I was too happy. I saw a picture of a band on a t-shirt, text superimposed over their image that read "We Die We All" The band, for all their carefully manicured moodiness, looked like they had a lot less on their minds than the guy wearing the t-shirt, let alond the balance of the L train platform population.

I rode the train home with my face in the armpit of a tall black man. He was wearing a blue track suit and a great deal of cologne, but even still I was glad to be in New York. Black men's armpits are part of the package, after all.

When I got home Karen was asleep, face down on the couch. Our dog farted, and I kissed my beautiful wife on the cheek as the smell of dog shit filled my consciousness. I woke her up and we watched the Daily Show on my computer before I started working on this entry.

"Goodnight!" Karen yells from the lofted bedroom. That means that she wants me to come to bed.

Goodnight!