I had just finished a workout when I stopped beneath the TV mounted above the stairway at my gym and saw that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. The news made it sound like a small aircraft had flown into one of the towers, and after enough years in New York, you think you’ve seen everything.So a plane hitting one of the towers felt like bad luck.I ran down to the weight room and yelled the news to my buddies. Nobody took it that seriously. Just another day in New York.I went back upstairs and watched with a couple of friends who worked at the gym. Then the second plane hit, and whatever nonchalance we had felt collapsed instantly. “Shock” doesn’t even begin to cover it.I left for home. My neighbor Clare, a beautiful blonde actress, stood outside my door, crying. We went up to the roof, where we could see the towers over the skyline, and we watched the smoke until the buildings disappeared behind it.We stood there in silence, feeling how vulnerable, how exposed, our city suddenly was. I remember us being together all day, and oddly, I don’t remember a single word passing between us.My apartment had a balcony over First Avenue, and as the day wore on, we watched people who worked downtown make the long walk home to the Upper East Side. They were covered head to toe in ash, moving like sleepwalkers. It was one of the most frightening things I have ever seen.A few friends came to my apartment, and we stood on that same balcony, watching the human tragedy pass beneath us. At some point, one of those friends, whom I’d always assumed was straight, turned to me and told me he was gay. He said hiding it barely mattered anymore.And at that moment, it didn’t. Against the scale of what had happened, something as personal and as complicated as sexuality suddenly seemed small. My conception of what mattered, or what I needed to worry about, changed profoundly, at least temporarily.But one image has stayed with me longer than anything I saw or heard that day or