A high-pitch wail drags Maggie from sleep.  She stumbles out of bed, confused, milk leaking from her nipples.  Later, in the rocker with four-month-old Lilly latched on, she wonders why she didn't instinctively connect the sound with her daughter.
 
Mrs. Romanowski, in 14C, trudges up the street, a carton of milk clutched in her spotted hand.  Her black, fake leather shoes blister and buckle in the heat.  Maggie hangs the day's laundry on a drip rack and positions it in front of the window to dry.  She's hungry for beets.  And something else.
 
The jackhammer across the street chugs at the afternoon, widening it.  The peaches and tomatoes and peppers for sale under white tents on the sidewalk bounce in concert.  Maggie steps out onto the 2x2 balcony hoping to catch a breeze.  Even the birds don't chirp in the heat.
 
The bakery on Broadway has the best bread.  Sweet; walnuts and raisins.  She dreams about them.  There's a dark-haired guy who works there during the week.  She imagines his name is Tom and that he has well-defined abs.
 
Kenneth hails a cab.  They slide onto the cold vinyl seat and, using her eyes, Maggie explains to him that it's not her fault they're late.  The cab crawls along 44th Street.  Three blocks before they reach the theatre, they jump out.  Kenneth takes off at a near run and Maggie hobbles behind in her high-heeled sandals.  She passes a girl in a red halter top whose perky breasts defy gravity.  She wonders if her nipples ever looked that inviting.
 
Their apartment is a mess.  Toys, burp cloths, magazines fill the space.  Maggie wants to buy matching flip-flops for her and Lilly, but she can't find any that fit Lilly's tiny foot.  Marshmallows are a silly food, but Kenneth loves them.  Maybe if she covered herself in them he'd touch her, lick her, finger her again.
 
There's a morgue scene in the musical.  The actors do something comical and everyone laughs.  Except Maggie.  She's lost in imagining the quiet, the cool of the steel table, the uninterrupted sleep.  The longing makes her dizzy and she closes her eyes.  Her breasts are full again.
 
They go for a late dinner after the show.  Maggie wants quiet, intimate; Kenneth wants bright, noisy.  They sit with their sandwiches under the glaring lights of Times Square.  She watches the over- and underdressed passerby, listens to the clip clip of sandals and heels.  The heat is killing the flowers.  She wishes for a cool breeze.  And something else.