The light from my desk lamp fell upon the conversation between Janet, “Oh, it’s for my benefit,” a childless divorcee in her mid-forties who was living off a substantial monthly stipend from her second husband. And James, “Do you think,” a twenty-four year old aspiring writer who worked part-time in a used bookstore, “I should write that down?” They were seated on a recently repainted bench in Union Square. She opened her purse, “here’s my pen,” and handed it to him. It was a warm Thursday afternoon in mid-October, approximately five miles and six months away from the desk where I was fleshing out their conversation. He took the pointed cap off the ballpoint pen, “I’ll put it right here,” and placed the tip to his open palm. Most of the leaves on the trees in the park had already turned brown. “Use it sparingly,” she had a warm smile, “like a good cologne—” “I got that part,” he looked at her from above the rims of his glasses, “Now, what about your phone number?” She was almost afraid that he wasn’t going to ask, “What could you possibly want with that?” “Because I’d like to see you again,” he stole another glance at her knees encased in shimmering gray stockings while venturing, “unless of course—” “Oh no,” she shook her head, “this has been so much fun I’d love to see you again.” They’d met at The Strand three hours ago, “Yeah it has,” then moved to a quiet booth in the rear of a nearby Greek diner, “it’s been a great day,” where their conversation expanded over cups of watery coffee, day-old chocolate éclairs and tepid chamomile tea. This park bench allowed for a last brief exchange. James smiled, “I’m really glad that I came into the city.” When she laughed in the sunlight he noticed that most of her teeth were capped. “Why is that so funny?” Shaking her head, “you sound so provincial when you say that,” before discovering an orange smudge on the right front pocket of her beige raincoat. “I like Brooklyn,” he muttered. “Your neighborhood is quite beautiful but…” Janet scraped at the smudge with her unpainted thumbnail and then wet her forefinger with the tip of her tongue, “I have some friends who live near you,” before rubbing it into the faint smudge. He grinned, “Are they yuppies or writers?” She examined the damp spot on her pocket, “neither …” and finally satisfied she replied, “they’re lesbians.” A police helicopter flew overhead and the sound reverberated off the buildings surrounding the park. “Why am I not surprised?” The sleeves of his dark grey shirt were frayed at the cuffs and the collar was worn down along the crease. Locks of her magenta hair were rearranged by the breeze as she said, “I’ll have to tell them to keep an eye on you.” He held up his hands in surrender, “I’m in real trouble now.” She turned to him and quietly asked, “Do I look like trouble to you?” He studied her dark brown eyes, “not at all,” and sensual pout, “but I guess it’s only fair for me to ask you the same question.” She kissed him just above the faint stubble on his cheek, “I’ll give you my number but you have to use it,” leaving a soft impression with her auburn lipstick. “Of course,” he began to blush as she whispered it in his ear. He wrote the ten digits on the palm of his left hand then recapped the pen, “thank you,” and handed it back. She placed the pen in her purse, “you’re quite welcome,” snapped the clasp, “and now if you don’t mind I’d like to walk you to your train.” He leaned back, “So soon?” She stood up, “I’m afraid so,” and smoothed down her skirt. He placed his hands on his knees, “but we were just getting started.” “We’ve got to save a few discoveries,” she glanced at the thin platinum watch on her left wrist, “for the next time.” James swayed a bit as he stood up. She slid her hands into the pockets of her raincoat while walking next to him, “Will you call me?” The coffee was percolating on the stove. “Of course.” They stopped before a flight of stairs that lead to the turnstiles. I yawned while stretching my arms above my head. James watched a few people descending the stairs before turning to her and saying, “I guess this is my stop.” I stood up and yawned again while walking to the kitchen and then used a green dishtowel to hold the pot while pouring coffee into my white cup. Yesterday, Carly Simon was singing about the clouds in her coffee while I was buying spinach and tomatoes for dinner at the Korean market on 7th avenue. A dollop of milk turned my coffee dark brown. As I sat at the desk a blond woman wearing an orange T-shirt, dark blue shorts and white sneakers jogged by. “Can we see each other next week?” His question brightened the grin on her face. An ambulance sped through the nearby intersection. She nodded, “I know a good place for coffee and it isn’t very expensive.” The chorus of sparrows continued chirping outside the open window on my left as the siren faded down the avenue. “Okay,” she kissed him quickly on both cheeks, “so I’ll see you next week.” He smiled and then walked down the flight of stairs. She waved dutifully when he looked back, then turned and walked toward the corner.
Four National Guardsmen cradling machine guns were milling around the token booth. A bike messenger was nearly hit by a taxi making a U-turn in the intersection. James removed the MetroCard from his wallet as the man in front of him re-swiped his card. The splayed remains of a pigeon were crumpled in the gutter beneath Janet. The prerecorded message from the MTA urging customers to report any suspicious packages or activities was broadcasted as he pushed through the turnstile and walked through the station. The pedestrians entering the crosswalk moved quickly toward the opposite sides of the street. A Brooklyn-bound Q train was pulling up to the platform as he descended the stairs. She weighed their prospects for happiness while stepping over the curb and allowed herself a narrow smile. “The next stop will be Canal Street,” James entered the crowded train and looked for a seat, “step all the way in and stand clear of the closing doors.” The drugstore windows she walked by were decorated with ghosts, goblins, and large spiders that dangled from imitation webs. He gripped the metal pole with his right hand as the train lurched out of the station. A portion of the sun hung below a bank of orange clouds. He studied the smudged, but still legible, blue numbers on his palm. She removed a pair of mirrored sunglasses from her purse and put them on. He swayed into the shoulder of the person beside him as the train rounded the curve before speeding past the 8th Street station. A slow moving plane was silhouetted by the setting sun. He thought about how pretty she looked while sitting across from him at the diner. Janet glanced at her reflection as it was cast on a row of tinted windows. James remarked, “they make a really good cheeseburger here,” as she looked over the menu in silent bemusement. Long shadows on the sidewalk were stretched beneath the pedestrians. Shaking her head, “go ahead if you’re hungry,” while closing the menu, “I’ve already had lunch.” She removed her sunglasses before entering the pet store. He shrugged, “I’m okay,” having eaten a large breakfast around noon, “maybe I’ll just get a pastry.” She headed down the narrow aisle toward a row of shelves displaying cat toys. “So when you’re not working in a used bookstore you’re hanging out in one?” The yellow price tag dangled from the ear of a large blue and green cloth mouse. “Pretty much,” he grinned, “and you?” She walked to the counter and placed the toy before the man seated behind the cash register. “I was just running an errand and thought that I might find something new to read,” then coyly added, “while cruising for boys.” The man counted out her change before putting the mouse in a small white plastic bag. “Oh,” his eyes widened, “do you live nearby?” She began walking home. “Not too far.” He gripped the metal pole with both hands as the train reached Canal Street. “And when you’re not hanging out in used bookstores you’re writing fiction?” He leaned into the young woman reading a paperback as the train came to a slow screeching stop. “Yeah, it’s kind of sick when you think about it.” She shook her head, “I don’t think so.” The doors opened at Canal Street. He looked down at the table and smiled, “No?” “Step all the way into the car,” a crowd of elderly Chinese women carrying light red plastic shopping bags boarded the train, “and stand clear of the closing doors.” “I think it shows your level of commitment.” The woman with the paperback was able to squeeze between two potbellied MTA workers wearing battered hardhats and steel-toed boots. “I really don’t have much of a life.” The doors closed and quickly reopened, “we’re being held in the station by supervision dispatch,” as three police officers, “and should be proceeding shortly,” with bulletproof vests bulging beneath their uniforms, “thank you for your patience,” made their way into the packed car. “What do you like to do for fun?” He shook his head, “not much,” and placidly stated, “go to parties or bars,” then scratched his chin, “a friend of mine lives out on Far Rockaway with his girlfriend and sometimes I spend the weekends with them.” On the first Sunday in September the three of them had sat on the beach a few hours before dawn and smoked a joint as an infrequent procession of planes flew out of JFK. “The next stop on this Brooklyn-bound Q train will be DeKalb Avenue.” The three police officers talked about batting averages while standing around the metal pole. The amphora on the cover of the menu was smeared with orange frosting. A long row of bright lights lining the walls of the tunnel passed by the vibrating windows. She noted his torn cuticles while scrutinizing the size of his hands. Sunlight flooded the packed compartment as the train began crossing the Manhattan Bridge. He took the dark red plastic cup filled with ice water off the table.