City

She had a large fountain cup filled with something that looked like milk, with the big red words "Boston Market" on the side, and she was walking some little mutt that looked like a drain clog. It was nearly two in the morning, and I didn't understand it.

"Excuse me," I carefully said, "where is there a Boston Market open?"

"What?" I was fairly surprised she said anything at all."

"Where is there a Boston Market open right now?"

"Um," she said, "how should I know?" She jerked the neck of her little clog and hopped her step farther down the darkened street. How should I know?

The city is a place I'll never understand. Every time I think about leaving, abandoning it, I realize I could frequent every establishment and corner I could and still not wrap my head around the slightest thing. Will I ever really know the city? Will I ever really know anything? And will I ever find this Boston Market? And was that milk?

I could ask myself questions until the sun comes up. And I did. I sat on a bench, at a bus stop, waving all the irritated bus drivers away. I was hoping I would have an epiphany, that the sunrise would hit me like a movie star and it would all suddenly be made known to me. But all I really learned is that people walk their dogs at really any time of day.