like a goddamn lawsuit,” she snapped.
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“So now you’re an umpire?”
“Look, if you want to talk, we’ll talk. But if you want to argue—”
“I’m on my way into New York. Can we meet tonight?”
It was the last thing he wanted. Their breakup, if that’s what it was, had been confusing and painful, and he didn’t really want to dive back into that dark pool just yet. She had met someone else, or so she said—so why come to him now?
“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Battery Park City, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you again when my train gets in, and we’ll set it up.”
“Right,” he said, and he hung up.
He sat in the red leather armchair and looked out at the cold, still night sky, void of twinkling stars, their pale light eaten up by the voracious wattage of the city. Things had started so well with Kathy. They spent that first summer hurling themselves into the humid air, driven by hunger and romance, to dark, cozy corners in their favorite hangouts. There was the Life Café, with its Goth waitresses slouching between tables, all purple eye shadow, pale skin and green hair, sleek in tights and black skirts, serving strong coffee and heaping burritos, or the Royal India, steaming platters of pa-padam and vindaloo that set their tongues on fire and their eyes streaming. And of course McSorley’s—dirty, loud and boisterous, where the waiters were ex-cops and the clientele future felons.
But it all went wrong somehow, as these things sometimes did, and now she was reaching out to him again—but why? He put on his coat to begin the long trudge down to Battery Park, where the Hudson River emptied out into the roiling currents and channels of New York Harbor.
Perhaps, he thought as he slung on his coat, he was not the only one abroad on this cold winter night.
C HAPTER T WELVE
T hey agreed to meet at a little seafood joint overlooking the Hudson River in Battery Park City, where Kathy would be staying at a friend’s place. The snow was falling heavily when he arrived ten minutes early—big fat flakes tumbling from the night sky. She was already there, tucked away in a dark corner, underneath a white life preserver with the name of the restaurant stenciled on it in bold black letters. An empty wineglass sat on the table in front of her.
“My train was ahead of schedule,” she said apologetically when he slid into the seat opposite her.
The place was quiet—Tuesday evening was a good time to avoid crowds in New York restaurants. A young couple sat at the bar, their hands resting casually on each other’s knees. A grizzled man in a parka perched on a stool at the end, watching the evening news on the bar’s TV.
They were the only other patrons. A few of the kitchen staff sat at an empty table, resting their feet. They were young and stocky with caramel skin and straight black hair—probably Mexicans or Guatemalans. Lee had often thought that every restaurant in New York would shut down if Immigration suddenly decided to ask for papers for every kitchen worker in the city. Kitchens in Chinatown were filled with illegal Chinese immigrants, and a steady stream of workers from Central America kept hungry New Yorkers fed. They were hardworking, smart and efficient—they took the jobs no one else wanted and excelled at them.
A slim young waiter with slicked-back hair slinked up to them and took their drink orders. Lee asked for a Scotch, and Kathy ordered another glass of Cabernet.
“Looks like you’re already one step ahead of me,” he remarked as the waiter removed her empty glass.
She avoided meeting his eyes. “I kind of needed it.”
“I would have done the same thing.”
Looking at her, he finally felt that the connection between them was broken. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time—but not in a nostalgic, romantic way. A veil had been lifted from his eyes, and all that was familiar
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“So now you’re an umpire?”
“Look, if you want to talk, we’ll talk. But if you want to argue—”
“I’m on my way into New York. Can we meet tonight?”
It was the last thing he wanted. Their breakup, if that’s what it was, had been confusing and painful, and he didn’t really want to dive back into that dark pool just yet. She had met someone else, or so she said—so why come to him now?
“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Battery Park City, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you again when my train gets in, and we’ll set it up.”
“Right,” he said, and he hung up.
He sat in the red leather armchair and looked out at the cold, still night sky, void of twinkling stars, their pale light eaten up by the voracious wattage of the city. Things had started so well with Kathy. They spent that first summer hurling themselves into the humid air, driven by hunger and romance, to dark, cozy corners in their favorite hangouts. There was the Life Café, with its Goth waitresses slouching between tables, all purple eye shadow, pale skin and green hair, sleek in tights and black skirts, serving strong coffee and heaping burritos, or the Royal India, steaming platters of pa-padam and vindaloo that set their tongues on fire and their eyes streaming. And of course McSorley’s—dirty, loud and boisterous, where the waiters were ex-cops and the clientele future felons.
But it all went wrong somehow, as these things sometimes did, and now she was reaching out to him again—but why? He put on his coat to begin the long trudge down to Battery Park, where the Hudson River emptied out into the roiling currents and channels of New York Harbor.
Perhaps, he thought as he slung on his coat, he was not the only one abroad on this cold winter night.
C HAPTER T WELVE
T hey agreed to meet at a little seafood joint overlooking the Hudson River in Battery Park City, where Kathy would be staying at a friend’s place. The snow was falling heavily when he arrived ten minutes early—big fat flakes tumbling from the night sky. She was already there, tucked away in a dark corner, underneath a white life preserver with the name of the restaurant stenciled on it in bold black letters. An empty wineglass sat on the table in front of her.
“My train was ahead of schedule,” she said apologetically when he slid into the seat opposite her.
The place was quiet—Tuesday evening was a good time to avoid crowds in New York restaurants. A young couple sat at the bar, their hands resting casually on each other’s knees. A grizzled man in a parka perched on a stool at the end, watching the evening news on the bar’s TV.
They were the only other patrons. A few of the kitchen staff sat at an empty table, resting their feet. They were young and stocky with caramel skin and straight black hair—probably Mexicans or Guatemalans. Lee had often thought that every restaurant in New York would shut down if Immigration suddenly decided to ask for papers for every kitchen worker in the city. Kitchens in Chinatown were filled with illegal Chinese immigrants, and a steady stream of workers from Central America kept hungry New Yorkers fed. They were hardworking, smart and efficient—they took the jobs no one else wanted and excelled at them.
A slim young waiter with slicked-back hair slinked up to them and took their drink orders. Lee asked for a Scotch, and Kathy ordered another glass of Cabernet.
“Looks like you’re already one step ahead of me,” he remarked as the waiter removed her empty glass.
She avoided meeting his eyes. “I kind of needed it.”
“I would have done the same thing.”
Looking at her, he finally felt that the connection between them was broken. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time—but not in a nostalgic, romantic way. A veil had been lifted from his eyes, and all that was familiar
Similar Books
