“I’m just looking for some understanding” she shouted across the parking lot, at the man walking away away away. Apathy. Her own Kitty Genovese. From him. From everyone. From the women with the lettuce heads and chocolate bars. She should have known. His hair swished toward her. Waving. The lights glared on her. Harsh. Restrictive. She cried by the car, hard. She felt it. In her hands and her ankles. It was hopeless. She cried by the car. Hard. Hard. He didn’t even know who Baudelaire was.