Or, as Norman Mailer once told me, not everything in life has to be explained — I hovered, make-up clotting, watching the setting sun transform the West Village into a tawny Tuscan terrain, anticipating what was to come, and wondering, what if— A buzzer rang. My finger seemed to be on it. “C’mon up,” he said, through the intercom. I glided north. “Hi Annie,” said the…