Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter twenty-five is a lie. At least, the end of it is. That is not what happened. That was just Doc projecting his worst fears onto the page. Actually he and this woman stepped out for a cup of coffee.
“There’s an Algerian Marxist with a falafel stand on Ninth Street,” Doc said. “There are two Palestinian brothers running a deli on Tenth. Across the street from them is the mosque and around the corner is the Halal butcher. There are worshipers standing around all the time. The Arabs stand together. The Pakistanis stand together. Each speaks and stands a different way. When I step into Di Robertis Italian Coffee Shop for a Sanka and an éclair, there are always a variety of Muslims standing in line with white caps buying coffee.
“And down here, on the other corner, is Babu who sells New York Posts and People magazines from his newsstand. He has a PhD in political science from the University of Delhi and has a hard time meeting American intellectuals.”
Doc had so many things he wanted to tell her.
Doc felt good walking next to this mean woman. There was something great about it.
“What do you like about me, Anna?” the woman finally asked.
“I like the way you like flowers,” Doc said. “I like your muscles. I like the way you kiss when you come.” Then Doc added, “I haven’t been myself lately.”
“Why, because you’ve been alone?”
“No,” Doc answered, “because I’ve been without you.”
They never spoke to each other again.