"I don't think people give you enough credit," Vicki says between puffs of her cigarette.

She's sitting on the ledge of her fire escape, body half outside the apartment, in an attempt to avoid giving me cancer. It's been raining all day and we've been stuck inside in her tiny SoHo apartment with nothing but Woody Allen movies and each other as entertainment.

I shrug.

"I think only people who have been in our situation can understand it."

She nods and inhales. I continue.

"You just reach a point where enough is enough, where you're tired of constantly letting your walls down only to get fucked over again so eventually..." I trail off.

"The walls stay up."