Don't go, Elijah thinks. And again, with more feeling. It's good. It tastes like pineapple ground into the flat of his tongue; so sweet that it burns. Don't go. Good phrase, he thinks. Killing a half dozen sentiments with just one pair of words. Pretty damned good. And then he rationalizes that it would have been better had he actually said it. The apartment is hollow without Sean. But life does continue to spin, and the subway runs its routes back to back without fail, and the heartbeat of the city taps its rhythm against the soles of his sneakers.

There are moments when he thinks Manhattan is trying to tell him something. A worn poster for Return of the King flaps precariously on a wall just across the street from the deli where he gets his bagels. He has no particular reason for taking this side of the street today. So when the torn face of Samwise Gamgee stares at him over his cream cheese and lox he finds his feet rooted to the pavement. Feels like a bastard. He reaches out and smoothes the tattered paper, leaving behind a smudge of black-flecked white. Am a bastard, he thinks.

He cradles a six-pack, a carton of cigarettes, and a half dozen Hershey bars under his arm and paces the convenience store's aisles. Wonders idly what makes up the meat in Chef Boyardee. And then figures, hey, if it's not broke. He realizes he's pondering canned meat products and shuffles to check out, but not before thinking that Sean would probably know exactly what that meat is and why one should or should not eat it. There are moments (hours) when Elijah wishes he could go back to not caring, but New York has never successfully drowned out Sean's voice.

They're good, he thinks. Good in the way certain phrases are good. They accomplish a lot with their second-hand instruments and raspy singing voices. And he wishes he just had the funds to get something big going. Sure, he could bankroll it all; he could just throw it around. But it's too big a gamble too early on, and he's no idiot kid. So he approaches them after the show and he buys them a round and they think he's great. But at the end of the night all he takes home with him is the lead singer's cell-phone number.

Life is good with doling out the occasional ass kicking. And Manhattan has no objection. Its rawness and honesty, now that he thinks about it, seem to facilitate just that. He gets this in the mail (a slip of napkin dated March 21st, 2000): "I can still taste you. And I know that sounds fucking ridiculous and you only hear that crap on TV, but there you go. If I close my eyes and put myself there I remember the salt on my tongue—almost. I want to recreate it. I never want to forget. This was not a mistake."

"Wasn't it, though?"

"Elijah?"

"Mm."

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You got the..."

"Yeah."

"Kinda dumb. Regretted it the second I dropped it."

"Whatever. I just wanted to figure out what you meant by..."

"You haven't called. I didn't know how to. I don't know. I left so fast. Anyway. I wrote that sitting in Brava's. You know, across the street from the Embassy. I was watching them work on the theatre and thinking about how they were doing it because of the movie; because of us."

"Sean? Shut up and tell me this shit in person."

"Oh. I can. Yeah."

"You can."

He actually looks at it later that evening. The short note is penned on diner-brand napkin, hastily addressed to "Elwood" and signed by "S". It makes him think of coffee. When his phone rings and he sees its Ronnie (from That Band), he lets the voice mail take it. He throws the third latch on his door, which he hasn't done since the first week he lived here. He leaves a message on Hannah's machine (Sean's coming, got that wine you picked out last time he was here? Get home and stop slutting it up at the pub. Love you.).