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You know how people are always mistaking me for someone who has money? It happened again. Yesterday.

I’m having my breakfast, around noon, in the restaurant on the big balcony overlooking the huge main room of Grand Central Station. Remember Tony? He manages the lunch and dinner there. Long as I slip in before the hungry mobs from the office towers descend for their lunch hour, I can relax and enjoy my espresso and croissant, gratis. And Fridays, when I’m tending bar at The Palmetto, Tony can swing by, relax with a couple after-work martinis, gratis, and his commute on the Long Island Rail Road becomes a happy blur.

I like to sit at the small tables along the stone balustrade of the balcony so I can look down at the thousands of scurrying people below. All right, so maybe I’m not watching all the people, just the women. Even before we dated, when we were "just good friends", you always told me I was a typical guy, right? So I'm a typical guy. I’ve got the standard-issue built-in automatic radar, like an air traffic controller at LaGuardia, that instantly picks out and tracks the good looking women in any crowd. And you know how I’m a little extra horny in the mornings. So yeah I like to just lazily watch all these women walking fast across the station and out of my life forever, again and again and again. Why would I even think of living someplace where they weren’t so many women?

Anyhow Tony sends this cute Puerto Rican waitress over with my espresso and croissant because he knows I’ve got a thing for her. I see him grinning from behind the oval bar in the center of the place, shaking his head while he uses a calculator, probably remembering when he was single like me. Married guys remember getting laid when they were single, but they forget the empty times, the times when it’s like being adrift on a wooden raft under a burning sun. They’ve got wives to go home to, which is sort of like every night after your eight-hour shift on the raft, the goddamn Coast Guard swings by and picks you up.

I try to chat up Marissa, the waitress, but she always gives me this ice queen thing every morning. She knows my name, but she never uses it. Doesn’t even call me "sir". Just makes like I’m not really there, just another blank face among eight million blank faces. I don’t know why I’m attracted to her, but I am. Okay, maybe it has something to do with that big pear-shaped ass of hers. Or those black eyes that lock on mine, even though she doesn't even speak to me. I don’t know why she doesn’t like me. I don’t mean she’s got to want to sleep with me. I’m just not used to people not liking me. You know how I am. When you were with me, we made friends wherever we went, right? Still, I give Marissa a smile and ask how she’s doing, is she enjoying the spring weather, does she miss her home back in PR.

Listen, there’s something I’ve decided I'm going to tell you: You know that I had a brief thing with Rose DeLillo after you left, after you decided to take that job in DC, which I completely think was the right move for you. But the thing with Rose DeLillo was just a few weeks, just a rebound thing. Since then, I am enduring the worst stretch of celibacy since Mary Kinsetta welcomed me into The Club back when I was fifteen. And it’s not because I’m not trying! I’ll take any shot I can just hoping that one of these shots is going to make a girl shoot back. And that’s why, even though you always say that I’m a picky dresser, I’ve been paying even more attention to myself, wondering if my clothes may be sending off the wrong signal, you know? I’ll tell you some more truth: it’s driving me nuts, I can’t think straight. Some nights I can't even get to sleep from thinking I’m never going to get laid again. I’m not sure I even remember how to do it. And don’t give me that crap about it being like riding a bicycle. When people don’t ride a bike for a long time then get on one–they crash. Blood and abrasions all over the place.

So anyhow Marissa puts the coffee and croissant on my table, the little dish with the croissant is spinning because of the way she kind of throws it onto the table. She ignores me chatting her up, asking her how she's doing–but then out of nowhere she just says, "You really think you’re something, don’t you?"

Out of nowhere. And she isn’t smiling. "Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I was just being social, being friendly. Have I been discourteous to you in any way, Marissa?"

I swear, sometimes I can sound like a lawyer, like one of these cons who’s gotten himself a mail-order law degree from his jail cell. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not arguing the point. I can be a jerk. But you and me had some good times in our two years, didn’t we? I’m not a bad guy, am I?

But Marissa, she didn’t stop there. She says, "You think you’re a big shot? You just sit there and ‘spect me to bring your free meal every day?"

I said, "What? I don’t leave a tip?"

She ignored that. She says, "Every day. Five times this week alone. You just sit there and ‘spect me to wait on you."

I wanted to say, 'Yeah, sweetheart, that's why it's called waiting tables.' But I said, "So at two bucks a pop that means I’ve given you ten bucks this week alone."

She froze, looking me straight in the eyes. "You ain't given me nothing."

I’m telling you, any second I expected the knife in my chest.

She doesn’t look away, like she’s challenging me to say something. And I can’t help it but I’m thinking she looks great. Something about women being angry. You know what I'm saying. It’s like they’re asleep all the time, until you get them angry, and then they blossom. That’s not the right word, though, because it’s more like–wham!

She’s leaning forward and I can see the smooth brown skin of her breasts in the gaps between the buttons of her blouse and she catches me looking and she says right into my face, "Maybe you keep yourself clean and dress nice, but you’re still just a bum."

What could I do? She was in a mood. Happens all the time in this city. People just get into a mood. I should have just opened the Times, sipped my espresso, maybe given her a "that’s nice now eat shit and die" smile, but I have to tell you, she was reminding me of you. You know what I’m talking about. Fighting was your favorite foreplay. It had its good points, I won’t deny. So maybe you understand what I’m saying: this girl was getting me up. Blame it on the memories of you, or the barren months I was drifting through, but I couldn’t control myself. It comes right out from under my boxers and stretched down my thigh and it was so hard it hurt. It really hurt.

Of course, I had to go and shoot off my mouth. "Marissa. Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I’m Tony’s friend, and not his ‘charity case’, not just some bum? Did you ever think that maybe I work hard, just like you? You think tending bar at The Palmetto isn’t hard, honest work? You tell me what is, then."

I saw the flicker in her black eyes but it took me a moment to figure out what it meant: She hadn’t known I tended bar at The Palmetto. Her lips went thin and tight and I realized, oh, fuck, I just made a stupid mistake. She would know what a bartender at The Palmetto makes. On a slow night, I make probably five times what she makes hustling lunches to the thin-tipping office hordes and business-class tourists. And here she was, bringing me my free breakfast every morning. Okay, but was it my fault?

She just says, almost whispering, "There’s nothing hard working or honest about you." The thing of it is, seeing Marissa angry like that, her voice deep and her concentrating on her English to get it right, and how she just locked her attention on me and I couldn’t move, didn’t want to move, it got me going. For a moment, it was exactly how it used to be with you. But then she just walks away, and I’m left there with a throbbing erection–thinking about you–and staring at Marissa's big ass.

Now I was miserable.

I kept trying to read some piece on how the Brighton Beach Russians were using Mafioso management and capitalist strategy to take over the world or something, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was in a mood. I was definitely in a mood. I was thinking crazy thoughts. I gave up on the Times and stared down at the women flowing through the train station, going up the ramps, out the doors onto the streets and sidewalks or into the tunnels and corridors connecting the train station to the surrounding hotels and office towers.

I’m watching thousands and thousands of people all hurrying around, going wherever they were going, dressed in their suits and ties and skirts and blouses and vests and wingtips. carrying their cell phones and brief cases and computers and backpacks and pocketbooks and wallets stuffed with their credit cards and gym passes and social security cards–and I’m wondering–how many guys are walking around with erections? How many women are striding along just wishing they were home in bed snuggling after making love with a guy they really wanted and who wanted them back?

I’m thinking we’ve built all this huge city and offices and trains and we all have jobs but really all anyone wants is to be held tight and made love to but we hardly seem to ever do that. I mean, do the math: how many minutes of your life have you spent making love, hugging, kissing, compared to the hours you’ve spent working, or watching television, or brushing your teeth? Remember that old song you used to sing to me, ‘You’d be so nice to come home to, you’d be so nice by the fire’? I was thinking that’s all everyone, anyone, really wants. Someone to come home to, because without that, no matter what angle you look at it from, the rest of this just doesn’t make any sense.

Anyhow by then I felt like I had a fever or something. I rested my chin on the smooth stone railing and stared down into the rushing crowds.

So I didn’t notice her until she was pulling out the chair at the table in front of mine. I look up and see her, and I realize that she had been in the restaurant just the day before. I remembered her. She had been there yesterday and I had noticed her because she was really good looking, blonde, which you know isn’t my type. And she’s wearing a navy suit, but it’s a good one, and her body and the suit are working together to make something even better out of each other.

I watched her slide a mahogany leather briefcase under the table. I wondered why was she choosing to sit at the table right in front of mine, when there were at least a dozen other, more private, tables? Something about the suit and haircut and manicure made me think late thirties, maybe even forty. She drops a big black leather shoulder bag on the table and she’s getting into her chair when she glances back at me, and she smiles. And I knew she was remembering me from the day before, from seeing me at this same table, just 24 hours ago, with an espresso and a croissant and the Times, looking like I had all the time and none of the cares in the world, just like now.

You know what it’s like in this city. You know how just seeing a person that you happened to see the day before can give you a connection?

I was going to say something to her right then, but she took a cell phone out of that big black leather shoulder bag. She heaved the bag into the chair across from her and started using the phone. I couldn’t hear her voice over the train station noise, but I liked how she didn’t talk too loud when using a cell phone. She was classy.

I tried again to read the Times, but kept looking up at her as she spoke on her phone. Then I just gave up and leaned on the stone balustrade again and just watched the women down there, crossing the vast floor below, coming into my life and going out of it, over and over and over.

And then I hear her ask, "So how are the idle rich this morning?"

I turn around and she’s smiling right at me. And there was something in her voice, maybe a little aggressive, but she was smiling, looking me straight in the eyes and I’ve got to tell you, looking back on it, I wonder if she wasn’t in a mood, same as I was.

Which maybe explains why I looked her in the eyes and said, "The idle rich are horny and lonely."

And she took it. I wouldn’t say she flinched, but her smile contracted, then expanded, and I could see the edges of her white teeth between the red lips.

"All the time and money in the world," she says, tilting her head back but not looking away from me, "And you still have the same problems we working stiffs do."

Maybe she thought I did have money, because I was dressed well, and because she had seen me two days in a row, here, lingering over my breakfast and newspaper. Or maybe she was just trying to find out if I had money. Or maybe she was just making conversation, being social, being friendly.

I don’t know where I was getting this from, but I stood up. I walked over to her table, feeling almost like I was going to black out. And I just stood in front of her, and waited till she saw my erection tunneling along my pant leg just below her eye level.

And I swear, when she saw it, she made a tiny gasp. But she didn’t look away, or laugh. She took a good look, then looked straight up at me, and she was smiling and she shook her head like maybe I was a bad kid but nothing too dangerous, nothing she couldn’t handle.

And she stood up. Right in front of me.

When she was standing–she was maybe six inches shorter than me; a little taller than you, maybe about 5’6"– I just looked at her face, and I was surprised and happy, really happy, that I liked her face. Liked her looks, a lot, and in every way. She was just so confident. She wasn’t afraid of anything. She had that same thing that you do, that same way of just going with whatever life throws at you, taking your swings and never looking away. I was imagining how she would look first thing in the morning, and I liked what I was imagining.

So I pulled her close and she made that small gasp again, and she put her head back and I kissed her.

And it gets stranger: While I'm kissing her, deep, I find her hand with my hand and guide her hand onto my erection. I'm serious. And then it got wild: She squeezed my hard on and didn’t let go. Man, I pressed my mouth against hers hard. I’m telling you the truth: I had my eyes shut and I was seeing stars bursting.

That’s when it happened. I heard a swooshing kind of noise behind me, but didn’t pay attention to it, and kept kissing her until I realized that she was pushing me away. She broke from me and leaned over the table looking into the chair on the far side. She yells, "No!"

Then she points into the restaurant area and I see some guy, short guy, wiry black hair, wearing a black and red Chicago Bulls jacket, threading fast through the crowded tables.

She says, "He stole my bag!"

So I chased him.

Yeah, I know. Definitely not like me. But I did: I chased him. Just like that. Boom. I’m running.

He’s out of the restaurant in a flash but he takes the stairs down into the train station, rather than sprinting out the doors, onto the streets.

I’m at the top of the wide stone stairs when I hear my girl. She’s screaming this time. "He stole my bag!"

And I glance up and back and see her with Tony and the waitress, Marissa, all three leaned over the stone railing, and it could have been the angle, but it looked as if my girl was pointing at me.

I shoot down the stone stairs without breaking my neck or crashing into anyone, but once I hit the main floor, it’s a mess. The lunchtime crowds are streaming into the station. There’s a long line of people outside the gate for the Chicago train. I leap over a suitcase as big as a moving van, land running, and take my first hard gulp of air.

It’s weird, but right then I wondered, just how long had it been since I had run, really run, as fast as I could? Not since I was in high school, I think.

Anyhow, I catch a glimpse of the thief. He had the big black leather shoulder bag tucked under one arm like a football and he wasn’t being too careful about dodging people. He just ploughed straight ahead. I’m thinking he’s done this before. I tell myself, if I catch up to him, I’m going to have to tackle him to bring him down. And you know what’s weird? I was looking forward to hurtling my body into his and smashing him into the stone floor of the train station.

Yeah. Adrenaline. Go figure.

So he’s plowing across the main floor, knocking into people and I realize he’s trying to create a mess behind him that would slow me down. But it also makes it easy to follow him, and it was slowing him down just as much.

He must of realized this about then, because he starts angling across the floor, going around people instead of smashing into them.

Still, I was catching up to him, fast.

He runs through one of the open gates leading to the tracks for the local trains going up the Hudson.

I run through the gate. And I stop. Can’t see him anywhere. It lasted only a second, maybe two seconds, but I have no idea where he’s gone. There was one train directly ahead, no people on it, but its doors were open. Two conductors stood by a pillar talking, arranging their books of tickets, their hats pushed way back on their heads.

Then I hear a bunch of shouting, but from back out on the main floor. I figure that my boy has gone out that way, probably smashed into someone, and raised a ruckus.

I run out a different gate than the one I’d come in and immediately see some middle-aged woman on the floor, the paper guts of her briefcase exploded in a ring around her, and people bending over to gather the papers, help the woman who’s just sitting there, stunned, on the floor.

Then I see him. He’s across the floor, near one of the corridors that runs from the submerged train station up to the sidewalks. He’s standing beneath a huge color photograph of a surfer riding a giant, curling wave, an advertisement for a company that made film–and he’s looking right back at me, but bent over and coughing and sucking air.

Like it’s a joke, I wave at him. He gives me the finger.

Then I was sprinting, and I swear it, I was laughing. Laughing, like a madman, or an idiot, or a kid.

He sees me charging and I could see him frown and mouth some curse. He turns and runs up the corridor, but then I saw something that made me run even faster: he was limping.

Three seconds later I’m passing under the huge photo of the surfer riding the giant wave and then I'm pounding up the smooth stone floors leading up to the sidewalks.

And I stop. There’s almost no one in the corridor, but he isn’t there. I had a clear view, all the way up to the banks of doors that opened on the crowded sidewalks. He wasn’t there. Gone. Like that. So I walk, looking all around, trying to see everywhere at once, scanning the newspaper and magazine stand, the pay phones, the hot, greasy fried food vendors lining the corridor.

He was gone. I don’t know. Maybe he had gotten into one of the office towers, or the hotel. Maybe he doubled back somehow. But he was gone.

So what could I do? I’m walking back down the corridor, hands on my hips, breathing like a race horse–and I see some guy in a suit reaching into a garbage can near one of the big, brightly-lit newsstands.

I sprint up to him, and grab his arm–just as he’s lifting the big black leather bag from the top of the trash can.

"Sorry, pal," I said. "That belongs to my girl."

He goes a little stiff, but when he looks at me, he sees whatever he needs to see to make him let go of the bag and walk away.

So, I’m suddenly feeling like it’s all a dream. I’m a happy kid running across the vast floor of the train station, going up the grand staircase two steps at a time and bounding back into the balcony of the restaurant like I’m expecting my girl to put a ring of flowers around my neck.

She’s there, with Tony and Marissa standing beside her. They don’t look happy, I’m thinking, but maybe they don’t see the big black bag. So I hold the bag out in front of me as I walk up to her, like it’s a gift, like I just bought it for her at Bloomingdale’s.

She yanks the bag from my hands and starts digging into it. Then she turns and dumps everything on the table, spreads it all around, then suddenly stops.

"Where the fuck is my wallet?"

And she’s talking to me.

I’m stunned. I see Tony drift away, go back to his calculator and paperwork, but Marissa, she’s still standing there, near my girl, and her hands are crossed under her breasts and she’s got this big smile on her face. Definitely the first time she's ever smiled at me.

"It isn’t there?" I say. Yeah. I know. I’m brilliant.

And my girl snarls at me. "You piece of shit. Give it to me now or I’m calling the cops."

She’s got her cell phone in one hand now.

"He must have taken it and dumped the bag!" I said. Which, definitely is exactly what happened. "That’s what they do," I say.

And I’m standing there, trying to think of something to say, and I glance over and see that Marissa is beaming, absolutely glowing with joy.

I’m staring in disbelief at Marissa, at her big smile, so I don’t see my girl step close up to me until it’s too late. I’m turning toward her just as her hand slaps into the side of my face.

For the second time that morning, my eyes were shut and I was seeing stars.

I’m not kidding, I had to shake my head to clear my sight, just like some character in a cartoon.

I just stand there, recovering, as my girl throws all the stuff spread across the table back into the big black leather bag. I’m still standing there as she storms away, although I came to my senses enough to back away in case she made a parting swing or even tried to kick me in the balls as she passed.

That’s when Marissa starts laughing.

And here’s what confused me: she had a beautiful laugh. It was deep and sort of ran up a scale and down it. She laughed like a surprised and delighted kid would laugh.

I just watched her laughing and listened to every note.

But I’m angry now. I step toward Marissa, and she sees me coming and looks me straight in the eyes. I looked right back, straight into her black eyes.

That’s why I don’t see it coming until it was almost too late.

I duck down.

Marissa’s hand swings so hard and fast through the space where my face had just been that she loses her balance.

She’s falling.

So I catch her, hold her up. Her knees are bent and she’s leaned over backward and I hear her gasp and she pushes her hair back off her face and looks straight into my eyes.

And I kissed her.

Her hands go onto my chest like she’s going to push me away. But she doesn’t. She grabs my shirt in both her fists.

I’m kissing Marissa, hard, and she's kissing me back, just as hard.

And right then I realize something. I realize why I haven’t gotten laid in so long. I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t over you.

When Marissa and I finally stop kissing I'm still holding her bent backward in my arms and she looks me straight in the eyes and says in that husky Puerta Rican accent of hers, "Oh, man. The things I'm going to do to you."

And from right then, I was over you. I was definitely over you.

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