Carter drove down the wrong side of the road. 11:30 an no traffic on Broad.

People think they know what lonely means. They should be the only car driving down Broad…ever, his mind lamented.

Carter turned right on 57th street. No cars.

He opened the Audi’s sunroof, allowing the breeze into the car. The newspaper on the passenger seat fluttered.

Left on Park.

Loneliness is the wedding ring on the vanity, with no one to wear it.

Carter pulled into the garage, easing the Audi onto stall 46. He walked to the valet stand at the end of the row and placed the keys back on their hook.

Then, he glanced over his shoulder at the Range Rover. Stall 56. He snatched the keys, as if stealing something, and sighed.

Loneliness is a cook walking into a parking garage on Park Avenue and take anything he wants. he thought.

Carter walked to the elevator at the top of the ramp. He picked a floor at random. 33…why not. He’d take a shower, eat some lunch, then head over to Jersey.