I'd visualize ascending a dark and steep stairwell; I could see myself opening the door. I knew the layout of the fictional furniture and the color of the imaginary couch. Of course, her real apartment was completely different, and hilariously smaller -- particularly when, in addition to her and her roommate, I was there, which was all of the time. I'd come over to watch TV, or have a glass of wine, or just because I could. The first time we ordered takeout, I painstakingly separated out the duplicate menus in order to beef up my collection uptown, before Lou explained that New York restaurants don't deliver beyond their immediate area: "Did you think they'd get on the subway with your pad thai?" She teased me a lot, but mostly she mothered me, which I guess I needed at the time because why else would I think it was OK to sleep over in her tiny double bed, like, once or twice a week? I would have hated me. She gave me a key, and occasionally I'd let myself in at three in the morning, when they were both asleep, have a snack, open Lou's door, and ask her to "scoot over." But most of the times that I stayed were on nights when we'd been out together carousing in her neighborhood joints. Everywhere in the West Village was legendary. We went to Corner Bistro for the best burgers in the city, and to the White Horse Tavern, where Dylan