About five years ago I attended the wedding of a friend of mine from college. Among those at the reception was a guy who’d graduated a few classes ahead of me, someone I’d always found a little churlish. Talk turned to politics, and inevitably, to 9/11. The only New Yorker at our table, I found myself repeating, for the umpteenth time, the story of my 9/11, waking up to find that the screen of the TV I’d left on had turned blue, trying and failing to dial out on my cell phone; climbing up to my roof just in time to see the first tower fall. There’s more to it than that, but Mr. Churlish, as I’ll call him, interrupted me.
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