To The Rude Guy in Apartment Five, I’m glad you’re happy to have moved into a new apartment, but no: I do not want to have a beer with you. I do not want to have a nude sleepover. I do not want to make you breakfast, lunch or dinner, no matter how many lap dances you promise to give me. I do not need you to serenade me through the walls at 1am. And no, I have no interest in letting you take me on a date. Sincerely, Magnolia Allen P.S. And no, I do not want to know how many accents you can growl in during intimate moments. How is that even a thing? P. P. S. Also, you will never find me standing naked in your living room ever again, so please stop leaving lingerie packages on my welcome mat.

A flop house, a pumping station, a maid's room, a homeless center, a former brothel, a Richard Meier building, a circus trailer, a sail boat, a skyscraper, buildings named Esther and Loraine—just a few of the places New Yorkers call home. For the past eight years writer Toni Schlesinger has been bringing us these "conversation places" in her weekly column in the Village Voice. Through her incisive questioning, original writing, and comic parallel reveries, Schlesinger creates miniature documentaries on the lives, passions, hopes, and heartbreaks of many of New York City's millions

To Mr. Tate Howard, You are quite possibly the most infuriating, annoying and grumpy man I’ve ever met in my life. I know you think that you’re God’s gift to women, but I have a secret to let you in on: you’re not. You’re God’s gift to yourself. Get over your wanna-be cool surfer self and grow up. I thought it was time that someone addressed your big head and told you straight to your face that you're not all that. Just because you have an Ivy league education doesn’t mean you’re the smartest man in the world. In fact, I’m not even sure if you would have gotten in if you didn’t have rich parents. Yes, I went there. Every woman doesn’t want to sleep with you and I’m sure you’re not even good in bed. And I’m someone that would know. From, Your Secret Not Admirer

“Go on a date,” she said. “You’ll love it,” she said. She was wrong! It had been one year, two months and seventeen days since my last date. So my best friend Abby decided to sign me up for a dating app. She guaranteed that she could get me the best date of my life within one week. I didn’t really want to do it, but I figured what did I have to lose? Turns out that I had: 1. $500 2. My dignity 3. My patience and 4. My innocence to lose OK, so I didn’t really have my innocence to lose, but believe you me, Jack Morrison was my worst date ever. And I’ve been on a lot of bad dates. Trust me when I say that that was the longest ten hours and 33 minutes of my life. I never wanted to see or speak to him again. But it turns out you don’t always get what you want in life, because Jack showed up the very next day at a family gathering I was attending as a fake plus one. As you can imagine that was a real pickle, Jack wanted to know why I went on a date with him when I’m dating someone else. But he can’t know the whole complicated truth of the matter. I’m in a fake relationship and now I’m being blackmailed by the worst date ever. That’s not even the worst part. I decided to log onto this new app called “confession board” to seek some advice, but it turns out Jack Morrison is absolutely everywhere and he’s not going to leave me alone until I submit to his demands.

To Marco (No, I’m not going to add Polo), Last night was a mistake. A big mistake. Or should I say small? I don’t want to hurt your ego. I should have listened to your sister. You’re insufferable and rude and far too cocky. Don’t worry. I won’t be telling anyone what happened because as far as I’m concerned it never did. Please stop calling me. I do not need to come and collect my bra from you. Or the t-shirt you lent me to sleep in when I got cold. And no, that one act doesn’t make you a gentleman. Far from it. Also, I do not need to have your smell near me to fall asleep. In fact, your shirt does the opposite. It gives me nightmares. Millie P.S. No, I do not want a repeat of last night at my office. I don’t care if that’s your fantasy or not. Stop texting me your fantasies, by the way. P.P.S. The texts I sent you this morning were drunk texts. I was still hungover. Do not construe them as anything else. P.P.P.S. Could you have given me any more love bites? There was no need to “mark your territory” because I am not yours!

To Whom it May Concern, I would like to request more information about the assistant job I saw advertised in Sunday’s newspaper with the six figure starting salary. I have a bachelors degree in English and many years of work experience and think I would be a good fit for the job. My questions are as follows: 1. What is the exact nature of the job? 2. Is it a strict requirement that I live with the boss? If so, can I have friends and others over? 3. The ad states there is a uniform. May I ask what sort of uniform? And why? Also, in lieu of sending a photograph, I’ve sent a picture of my very friendly dog that would also be joining me if I were to get the job. Yours Sincerely, Savannah Carter *** Ms. Carter, How do you know you’ll be a good fit for the job if you do not know the nature of the work? My ad specifically stated I was looking for an MBA grad, not an English grad that knows nothing about the real world. 1. This would be discussed in the interview. 2. Yes, you would be living with me. And no guests are allowed. 3. The uniform would be provided on your first day. You don’t need to know why. The job advertisement asked for a personal photo, is this your way of telling me you look like a dog? Today must be your lucky day because you’re the only person that responded to my ad. Are you available for a phone interview tomorrow? The Wade Hart This is book one of a duet. The second and final book is Return To Sender.

A magnificent new novel from one of America’s finest writers—a powerfully affecting story spanning the twentieth century of a widow and her daughter and the nuns who serve their Irish-American community in Brooklyn. On a dim winter afternoon, a young Irish immigrant opens a gas tap in his Brooklyn tenement. He is determined to prove—to the subway bosses who have recently fired him, to his pregnant wife—that “the hours of his life . . . belonged to himself alone.” In the aftermath of the fire that follows, Sister St. Saviour, an aging nun, a Little Nursing Sister of the Sick Poor, appears, unbidden, to direct the way forward for his widow and his unborn child. In Catholic Brooklyn in the early part of the twentieth century, decorum, superstition, and shame collude to erase the man’s brief existence, and yet his suicide, though never spoken of, reverberates through many lives—testing the limits and the demands of love and sacrifice, of forgiveness and forgetfulness, even through multiple generations. Rendered with remarkable delicacy, heart, and intelligence, Alice McDermott’s The Ninth Hour is a crowning achievement of one of the finest American writers at work today.