



It was summertime in Manhattan, dark and balmy, almost midnight, on the Upper West Side. He and I rounded the corner from Amsterdam. Drinks had gone well. Walking me home, he held my hand. Tipsy, I said, “You can’t come up,” and stopped near a stoop.

“I don’t want to,” he said coyly, placing his hands on my waist, drawing me close. “But I do want to see you again.” He smiled.

I smiled. “What I mean is, if you want to kiss me good night, it has to be here.” We weren’t even close to my building.

“But I thought you lived in ——” he said, craning his neck to look for street signs “——the 90s?”

“I do.” I started to stammer, to try to explain. “I do, but see, he knows we’re on our first date, and there’s a window he can see out of onto the sidewalk, and sometimes he’s waiting. If I’m too late, he can get worried.”