towers of the 50th. The upside-down trading floor is deserted. There are heaps of yellowed euros and deutschmarks dumped here, like snowdrifts. Wood panel, marble. Silence. And the air is strangely clear. You realize: no mites. The city has no eyes or ears here. You walk through empty, miteless rooms, stepping around light fixtures. Then she’s there, in a doorway. Her eyes, bright blue, radiant. Her smile, with that chaste yellow dress, so bashful. She comes to you. “You want it?” she says. “You want to be infected? You want to fly?” You nod. Eyes closing, she leans in for the kiss. Perfect Teeth Steven wanted to be a dentist. It was pretty much the first thing he told us when, as first years, we were all bunched