I’m at Morningside library and a homeless woman sits across from me and I have to move because she smells. I wish I could stand bad smells. I can stand the smell of horse poo. I can see that others can stand it too–people in Central Park who are actually paid to shovel it. How much do they pay? I might be willing to do it. That might be a good sign.

The next time I go to the library, the homeless lady is busy having a conversation with herself.  I decide to sit next to her. In doing so, I startle her, but only for a moment before she reconvenes her own private conversation. I try not to breathe.  I wonder: How long can I go on like this? No one is paying me to be here, I remind myself,  my face contorting. Finally, desperate for breath, I start to move away. But she is quicker. She bolts up and leaves. I breathe as much for a oxygen as for a sigh of relief.

But then, moments later, I am aware of another smell–one I haven’t noticed before.

How much would this one pay?