After lunch—room service with the two of us decadently wrapped in sheets—Steven leaves me
to my own devices for the afternoon.
After showering and getting dressed, I walk about the hotel, window-shop the expensive stores and then take off on foot to scrounge around the district for something interesting.
I'm beset again by that prickly agitation that makes the hair at one's neck stand on end. I shiver at almost every stop sign and turn around a dozen times to see who's following me. I get some strange stares from suspicious New Yorkers who move on swiftly past me, disgruntled by my confusion. Of course, there's no one there.
I soon stop myself every time the urge comes over me again. I'm just being foolish. But the premonitions linger. I feel the agitation in my shoulders, like someone
