home. She closed her eyes for a second, and she imagined herself back under the red gates of Nezu. A gate and a gate and a gate. And at the end of all the gates, Marx. Marx, in a white linen shirt and rolled-up khakis and a silly straw fedora that Zoe had bought him at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. He takes off the hat, and he tips it to her. She turned onto her side to smile at Marx in bed. “I love this city,” she said. “Maybe we could live here someday?” he said.
