In the parking lot behind my building a lone figure is shadow boxing. Illuminated by the pale glow of the street light and reflected in the freshly-wet surface of the asphalt, he dances, ducks and delivers a flurry of punches to an invisible opponent. His movements are quick and economical, tightly controlled and deftly executed, made with a level of grace that might lead one to think he’s choreographed the whole thing from start to finish. He’s dressed in a sweatsuit that makes me think of Rocky, or half-a-dozen other Hollywood boxing movie cliches. There’s a single vehicle behind him, a sedan; is the car his? And if so, has he come here, to this specific parking lot, bordered by an apartment complex and a mattress store, to practice his martial art? Or is this simply a chance occurrence – he was driving by and saw the opportunity to improvise this asphalt ‘ring’? A number 7 train passes noisily overhead, the row of lit-up windows snaking by on the elevated tracks. I stand by the fence that borders the lot for several minutes, watching him box, then walk slowly over to my apartment building.