Here’s a memory: You’re meeting up with a friend for lunch on a Wednesday. You live in Prospect Heights, they live somewhere in Queens. For no less than 50 hours a week, though, you’re across the street from each other in your respective glass towers in Midtown. You step out of the elevator. There are pipes everywhere. Orange ottomans and lime green armchairs. Guys chilling with laptops at a grainy wooden dining table — presumably