The window is open only about six inches, but that’s more than enough to allow the almost obscenely mouth-watering aroma of something fried to waft up from somewhere below, through the screen, and across the room to where I sit. The smell reminds me of Kentucky Fried Chicken, which I have not had since 1988. I have not had any chicken in 14 years (soy “chicken” does not count!), but right now I can’t help but fantasize about steaming bucketsful of just the skin, removed from the flesh and bone, in two varieties — extra-crispy and original — and making a mess of my fingers, lips, arteries, and conscience. The smell is so captivating that I fear it may have the power to lull me into a zombie-like state, at which time I will take to the streets and strangle the first stray chicken I come across. (Fellas, please feel free to wink at each other and suggest I choke the chicken instead.) Save me.