It gets so dark so early and even though I am not leaving the office very late, it feels like deep night. I am fumbling with my ipod and the cord gets caught on my coat, I jerk my arm and my bag opens, spilling a bunch of CDs to the sidewalk. They hit the pavement and shatter and I crouch down to pick up shards of plastic, liner notes, scoop them carefully back into my bag. A man steps up from the curb, looks at my predicament and says “Did Carol go this way?”

His graying hair is neatly clipped, he is well-kempt, he is not a streeter, but I don’t think I know him. His eyes are clear and focused, he is definitely talking to me. I take out one of my ear buds so I can hear him better. “You seem to like puppies,” he says and now I am thinking perhaps he is aphasic, there is a hospital right around the corner, there is some suffering here.

Another man walks past us, squeezing by on the narrow sidewalk. He is hunched into the bundle in his arms, a bunch of chrysanthemums wrapped in florist paper. “What nice white melons” says Aphasic Man and I am trying to follow the somersault in his brain that turns the yellow, frilled mums into something smooth and solid and pale. I don’t get to think about this for long because Aphasic Man pulls out a gun.

I see the silver flash and it is shiny enough to be real and big enough to be serious. He fires it, circumscribing an arc over my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I count the reports, so loud they fill my head. Five. Five. What did the gun look like? It did not have an extra clip. He is not re-loading, he is standing in front of me, I can hear him breathing but I can’t pick my head up to look at him. Does he have one shot left? Does he? Is he aiming at me now, feeling the space between here and the thing he is about to do?

All I can think is “I am not ready to die.” Because how pitiful that would be. To die here, unloved on this filthy street. With that odd detachment that happens in extreme circumstances I notice I have not pissed myself, and I am somewhat mollified that my death will have at least that modicum of dignity, even if I have not yet inspired enough love, have not yet given enough away. And, for heavens sake, could I not at least die in Brooklyn?

Then my eyes fly open. I am in my own bed with the light from the avenue striping the walls. I am alone and I am alive.