Dear Diary:
As I was leaving my East Village apartment one afternoon, two cops stopped me outside.
“Can you let us in the building?†one officer asked me.
As I got the lock open for them, I asked what they were doing, if they didn't mind me asking.
“We're following up on a domestic violence report we received,†the same cop responded.
They told me the apartment number. I see them sometimes. A nod and a smile here and there, just to be polite. I don't know their names.
The cops walked in, thanking me. I forgot about the apartment until a couple of days later. As I was walking up the stairs, I heard a man shouting from behind their door. I couldn't tell if the woman's response was normal - it could have been a laugh or a cry, or both. But, having never really met the tenants, I moved on, to my own studio, my own problems.
A month ago, when I got locked out of my apartment for the second time, my dad back home in Chicago asked if I could exchange keys with a neighbor. I laughed.
“In New York, no one knows their neighbors,†I told him.
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