All through their first date, there was no mention of dogs. Not once did she say, "I like dogs" or "I love dogs" or even "I have a dog." So naturally, dogs were the furthest thing from his mind. But when he picked her up for their second date at her East Sixth Street apartment, he found himself faced with several unpleasant surprises.
She lived on the block that many referred to as Little India, in a slummy basement studio under a restaurant called the New Delhi Deli. He knew she was a struggling actress, but somehow--when he'd first met her as a long-term temp at the midtown marketing communications firm where he worked--she'd seemed too grounded, too practical and, as he saw it, too "normal" for such an eccentric address. The entranceway smelled of curry, the narrow hall inside smelled of something dead, and he heard her neighbors abusing each other in a variety of incomprehensible tongues. It was a far cry from his doorman building on the Upper West Side.
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