It's so quiet in the apartment. The windows are all open because it's too hot this time of year to close them up, but there's not much going on outside, not for New York, anyway, and the Village in particular, which can typically be raucous still on a Sunday. Everyone must be indoors, watching this. All the hippies and hipsters crowded together, hundreds of the Village's terrible poets who want to be the next Dylan poised with pen over paper already.
The feed shows an animated craft lowering slowly towards a pockmarked white surface. The astronauts are counting it out, sixty seconds... Lee is finding all the animations and simulations annoying, she doesn't care for imagined fictions, she's had a taste for only things that are real these days, but then all of a sudden it's happened. The eagle has landed, they say. lunar model has landed on moon, the screen adds. Walter Cronkite is laughing and taking off his glasses, flustered. Lee's hand tightens in Michael's, and she's holding her breath.