Once our plane had landed, and we’d disembarked, and were making our way through LaGuardia toward the area of the terminal where the cabs line up, outside, A. and I began to talk about what we should do for dinner that evening, once we’d returned to the apartment, which still feels to us more like our home than does the house we’ve purchased in Cheyenne, even if it’s true that we do not own the apartment but rent it, and cannot do to it whatever we feel like doing, in terms of, say, renovation, without finding ourselves in some kind of legal trouble. Not that we’ve ever wanted to renovate it. And not that we can do whatever we want to do to the house in Cheyenne, either, but that, in that case, we need to consider only what is financially within our reach, not what is legally binding, since the home belongs to us and not to a landlord. Or, anyway, to us and to the bank from whom we’ve obtained a mortgage. And yet, as I said, it still does not feel as much like home to us as does our apartment here in New York. Because all our things our here, or anyway most of our things. And because we have lived here for many years (first separately, before we knew each other, and then, more recently, together).