“Shouldn’t writers move to New York City?”
I have to forgive them, of course they don’t know. They don’t know how that city has wronged me. What it’s done to me. The frigid loneliness I feel surrounded by millions of strangers. The icy memories of being cheated on in Soho. The brisk chill of the hospital in Hell’s kitchen that told Joe he had cancer. White snow everyone snorts just to live in Manhattan. Every memory I have in that city is arctic from Bronx to Staten Island.
I reply, “It’s just too cold for me there.”