"So, how was your day?" asked Karp.

"Okay. Jimmy Murphy threw up."

"That was the high point, huh?"

"And… and… Patrick Allessandro hit me with a big block, right here." She indicated a patch of flawless skin beneath a lock of black hair. "I hate Patrick Allessandro."

"It looks all right. Does it need a kiss?"

"No. Lillie-Dillie already kissed it. Daddy! Why does that lady have purple hair?"

Karp looked over at where Lucy was pointing.

"That's actually a man with purple hair, baby. And I guess he thinks it looks pretty." Karp did not admonish his daughter that it was impolite to point, and that loudly noting the personal peculiarities of passersby in New York was a good way to get yourself killed. Time enough for that.

They finished their drinks and walked a few more blocks to the industrial loft building where they lived. Since he had started to drop off and pick up Lucy twice a week, Karp had gained a better appreciation of what a miracle it was to have superb day care halfway between where he worked and where he lived, all of it within convenient walking distance.

The downside was the five-flight climb to the loft itself. Karp had an artificial left knee, the result of a basketball accident in his sophomore year at Cal Berkeley, the agony of which he had nobly ignored for years, until it finally crapped out. He would never have chosen to live in a walk-up, and had not chosen this one either, but rather its owner, who flatly refused to live anywhere else.

The two of them clumped up the dusty stairs together, singing "A Hundred Bottles of Beer," a ritual which required also that Karp become confused about how many bottles of beer were left on the wall, with Lucy correcting him, and then arguing about it, and giggling, until Karp started tickling her on the last flight of stairs, and then, snatching her up and throwing her over his shoulder, running up the last flight, to arrive breathless and laughing at their red door.