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Once, a man I loved sent me an excerpt from a short story about about a girl in the city eating salmon and onion sandwiches at a lunch counter while avoiding men with “Nice Voices.” I think of that fragment all of a sudden when I walk over to the bodega on the corner of Prince and order a chicken salad sandwich, with lettuce, on a roll. It comes tidily wrapped up in white paper, always so crisply folded into its lovely little lunch bundle. This sandwich is a Frank O’Hara poem, a short story from the New Yorker, it’s every passage I ever read about every girl living alone in the city and making no mark upon it and waiting for someone to love her in her suffocating ordinaryness.