90.

Every third residence the end-all event, a slow walk from 60th to 61st sounds like the radio driving through Iowa. Having left Vienna’s for the euphemistic fresh air, Cairo pauses at what could be 97.1, offers her a cigarette. She smiles, hands in pockets, says “no thank you.”

“You think it’s happened yet?” he says.

“What?”

“The end. The beginning. Happy-go-crazy-time.”

Vienna listens. “Not yet,” she judges. “Phoenix…”

“No. Eh... pray. Actually, I’m fairly surprised you haven’t murdered –

Manhattan, two blocks away, yells “ten,” meaning the champagne won’t drink itself.