“We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.”

“Blood was the only trace of him. Fourteen drops along the sidewalk. Twelve in the street. Vincent counted them. Twice.”

“Walking along the sidewalk and staring at the street, I couldn’t help but wonder if my date was thinking how provocative the term “manhole cover” is.”

“I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I'm not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about it.”

“And here he is, letting the massive steel street door click shut behind him, standing at the top of the three iron steps that lead down to the shattered sidewalk. New York is probably, in this regard at least, the strangest city in the world, so many of its denizens living as they (we) do among the unreconstructed remnants of nineteenth-century sweatshops and tenements, the streets potholed and buckling while right over there, around the corner, is a Chanel boutique. We go shopping amid the rubble, like the world's richest, best-dressed refugees.”

“Walk the street with us into history. Get off the sidewalk.”