There's a doorman and a deskman and a long canopy out to the street. A mirrored elevator carries you with elaborate slowness to your twelfth floor apartment where a panoramic view of Central Park awaits you. The rooms have been decorated in black and white, enlivened by accents of red from an abstract painting, a lacquered screen. At night, the buildings glitter, another galaxy. There must be times, perhaps in mid-afternoon, when you find yourself alone for an hour with nothing special to do, when the cityscape turns stale under harsh light. Then you might notice the rust streaks on the surrounding roofs or the odor from the air shaft or the low- level buzz that never stops.

so little
left
on the MetroCard