I hear cooing and scuffling as I stand on the steps of my building and at first, with the fluttering, hope for an angel, a visitation, but then realize I am listening to pigeons, crammed in a window box, mating over my head. I’m glad I don’t have to have sex like that, in a window box! I’m sure Peter is too — glad, that is. Peter’s my husband, and we have sex, fun sex, in a bed, under the off-white comforter with blue floral trim. We are lucky; we are blessed; we are happily married — both of us for the second time — although last night in the car he mentioned how they sang “The King of Love My Shepherd Is” at our wedding, and I had to say, “Jesus, damn it to hell, that was your first wedding”; pouting and so forth. Peter bit his lip and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, baby,” as he drove from West 79th to West 53rd. I stared out the window, and people looked blurry and stupid. I thought how nice it would be to live alone in a little Hell’s Kitchen studio. But then I remembered that his first love letter, which quoted Hart Crane, came with a box of Jujubes (my favorite!) taped to the side, and I forgave him. After all, I once called him “Sam,” my first husband’s name. We reached the diner at West 53rd, and Peter parked like a duke — no one parallel-parks like my husband — and we smooched, sadness over, as a spaniel, undocked plumy tail aloft, strutted by.