It’s 8:30 pm on a Friday evening, and I’m just about done working, because sometimes that happens. But my week was satisfying and my laundry is clean and the light outside my window is that cool misty grayish brown color that makes me love love love working at home in New York City on a solitary Friday evening. Across the street, some apartment windows are dark, some glow orange, and some eerily blue. The branches of the tree and the iron railings of the porch flanking the house directly next to me tonight seem more vividly defined against the light from my window than usual, their shadows deep and ominous.
It’s a Raymond Chandler kind of New York City evening.