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home.
    She says, “What if I had a guy over and was involved in an intimate moment?”
    I say, “But you’re in bed, sort of reading, sort of watching The Bachelor .”
    â€œThat’s just weird that you know that,” she says. “Where are you?”
    â€œWalking home.”
    â€œI was reading a story in Vanity Fair about Johnny Depp. He owns an island.”
    â€œLike I don’t?”
    â€œThen I started reading that Billy Collins book you gave me.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œ Picnic, Lightning .”
    â€œI like a funny poet. Why are so many poets depressed? It’s always dead people and dead mothers and dead soldiers. Grecian urns. Epic poems. Why not a poem to donuts? To canned tuna?”
    Phoebe says, “I loved Sylvia Plath in college. I loved Emily Dickinson.”
    I say, “I’ve tried to read Emily Dickinson and I have no idea what she’s talking about. Love is the thing without feathers? That’s like a password in a spy novel. And then your contact says, ‘Yes. And Belgium is lovely in springtime.’ You stopped listening.”
    â€œI was watching that new iPad commercial. They’re so good. How come we don’t do ads like that?”
    â€œThose are done by the talented people. We do diapers.”
    â€œYou excited about Mexico?”
    â€œYes. No. I’m wondering if I should have picked someplace else.”
    â€œYou always do this. At some point you have to make a decision and actually take a vacation.”
    â€œWhy? I enjoy the planning.”
    â€œYou’ll cancel. I know you. You’ll end up home alone cooking a chicken.”
    â€œKeats was twenty-five when he died. Byron, Shelley, Tennyson.”
    â€œWhat’s your point?”
    â€œI was just seeing if I could name some poets.”
    Phoebe says, “How was the rest of the shoot?”
    â€œFine. We got what we needed. Barely. I don’t know how, considering the director, the client, and the agency.”
    Phoebe says, “It always works out. You worry too much.”
    I wait at the light and watch as a cab goes by with three guys in their twenties in the back, one of whom has pulled down his pants and is sticking his ass out the window.
    I say, “One beautiful thing.”
    Phoebe says, “I’ve got a good one.”
    It’s a thing we do. Every day—well, most days—we have to describe a beautiful thing we saw that day, one beautiful human interaction. It was her idea, something her parents used to do with her when she was little.
    She says, “So this kid gets on the train. Tough looking. Wearing this baggy suit. He sits across from a dandyish guy. You get the sensethe kid has a job interview or something. He has a tie around his neck. He starts trying to tie it. But it’s obvious the kid has no idea how to do it. The dandy’s watching the kid. Says something to him in Spanish. I’m thinking there’s gonna be a fight. Only, the kid says something back, sort of . . . meek. The dandy says something and the kid hands him the tie. The guy ties it, talking the whole time. Undoes it, ties it again, then hands it to the kid. Dandy got off at the next stop. I love New York.”
    â€œThat’s really nice.”
    Phoebe says, “You?”
    â€œI can’t think of anything.”
    â€œThat’s not the game. The game is that there’s at least one beautiful thing that happens to you every day.”
    â€œI can’t think of anything.”
    â€œThink harder.”
    It takes me several seconds, but it comes to me sharp and clear.
    â€œI was walking to the subway this morning. Early. Like five thirty. To get to the shoot. And there’s one of those guys, the Ready, Willing and Able guys. Former homeless people, guys just out of prison. You know these guys? The city puts them to work sweeping and cleaning. Anyway, he’s swapping out a huge bag of trash