She leans toward me across a round and littered table and hands to me, a pear. She knows my own bag is already full with apples. We talk, and watch too, I suppose. Perhaps we are in a restaurant, though a cafe seems more likely. There is a slight draft from the large window. The window reminds me of the one we had in the house by the Orchard of Innumerable Plans. Outside all is wet thick slush and filthy traffic and foreign pastries and book stores and hair salons and florists and pedestrians. It's not that I can see my surroundings through the steamy window, through the smoke and the night, it's not even that I can remember my surroundings beyond the walls of this cafe, it's more that by now, I just know about them somehow.