Aging beatniks loaf on the grass, retirees challenge children to a competitive game of chess, mothers sit on park benches with their e-readers, rocking baby carriages with one foot. NYU students take to the park in droves, studying the human condition for psychology, sociology, and film classes. The park bursts with budding cherry trees and barely contained hope. It is Monday. Vacation Henry is back to Work Henry, buttoned up and pressed, heavy on the starch. I’m back to reality. My credit card is still not functional and Henry has promised to call the bank. He’s left me a hundred dollars in cash on the counter for daily expenses, which feels both extravagant and oppressive. I could surely ask him for more, I reason. But for what? I’ve called Yates twice, who tells me nothing. She sighs into the phone, a tap tap tap of her acrylic nails on a keyboard coming through the line. She talks a good game. Tells me all the things they’ve done, but that everything is inconclusive.
