It’s a hot day and M. and I are walking up the Westside Piers looking for somewhere to buy a drink. There’s heavy construction on the piers just below 14th Street, and, seeing that the concession stand I was counting on is closed, we decide to head to a sidewalk vendor across the Westside Highway. The vendor’s cart is parked just aside the entrance to the Highline, which leaves little doubt he’ll be charging tourist prices; nevertheless, we’re both parched and we’ve been walking a long distance, and I’ve already told M. I’ll fork over whatever a drink costs. I approach the cart and ask for a bottle of seltzer. The vendor hands me the bottle and murmurs something I can’t quite hear. ‘How much?’ I ask. ‘Four dollars,’ he repeats. ‘Four dollars!’ I exclaim. I think about my promise to M. and my extreme thirst, how long we’ve walked, how far we still have to go – but I can’t bring myself to pay more than twice what the drink would cost in a typical bodega. I shake my head and start to hand the bottle back. ‘Okay,’ the clerk says, holding up his hand in defense. ‘Three dollars.’ Now, I realize, even though I was expecting to pay this much, I’ve now entered into a negotiation, and I feel myself smiling and shaking my head, attempting to hand the drink back yet again. The clerk, now determined to rescue the sale (on what must be an extremely slow day), lets out a deep sign, grimaces, and asks me for two bucks. I fish two dollars out of my pocket, hand him the money, and M. and I head off on our way.