My fall from suburban grace, or more accurately my failure to achieve the merest molehill of suburban grace from which to fall, began with a dinner party and a perfectly innocent, modestly clever, and only faintly quirky remark about Armand Assante.

Armand Assante, the actor. If you didn’t know that Armand Assante was an actor, don’t be alarmed. Had I not caught, years ago, the second part of the two-part small screen adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey, I might not have known, either, but whether or not you are familiar with the work of Armand Assante, you are right to wonder how he could have had a hand in anyone’s fall from grace, suburban or otherwise. I wondered myself, and, even now, I don’t have a clear or satisfying explanation for either of us.

What I know is that I was doing my best. I had lit out for the suburbs in the manner of pioneers and pilgrims, not so bravely and with fewer sweeping historical consequences, but with that same combination of discouragement and hope, that simultaneous running-away and running-toward. I was a woman ready for a new life. I was trying to make friends, to adapt to my new environment, and for reasons that felt entirely out of my control, I was failing.

People like to say that cities are impersonal, that there’s nothing like a big city to make a person feel small. And, sure, when viewed from the top of a twenty-story building, I’m an ant, you’re an ant, everyone’s an ant.