Times Square(6)

"Oh, she's doing performance art!"

I blink and focus on the woman standing in front of me. She's clasped her hands together and has a wide smile on her face, staring at me as if she's just discovered a wombat in the middle of the concrete jungle that is the pedestrian plaza in Times Square.

"What are you supposed to be? A jilted bride?"

I start to shake my head but when I do a single tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. Fuck.

The woman nods and seems satisfied that she's figured me out. "Very well done. Give her a dollar, Frank."

Well then, now I can add performance artist to my resume. Fan-fucking-tastic. I wipe the tear off my cheek and take stock. I've got a dollar twenty-five. I think a single subway ride is three bucks if I remember correctly. It's cheaper to get a MetroCard and buy a monthly pass so that's what I normally do. So problem solved, right? I just need to get a couple more tips and I can take the subway back to the office. Still embarrassing, but the subway is full of odd characters so people will probably just think I'm a stripper on her way to a gig. In any case it'll get me back to the office a lot quicker.

I don't think I could pay the rent on street performing because it takes me another twenty minutes to collect two bucks. Once I do I stuff the rest of the flyers into the trash. My boss can fuck herself.

Not that I'm going to tell her that.

Out loud. In my head I tell her that all the time.

Besides, she's never going to know I tossed the rest of the flyers. Normally I wouldn't do something so unethical, but let's face it: I'm almost certain she made up this job just to get to me, and I did hand out most of them. Or more than half, which is most.

I wonder if the Budget Bridal Stop is even a client.

I bunch the material of the dress below my waist and lift it a few inches so I don't trip on it as I make my way down the subway steps so I can hop on the One towards the West Village. I buy a pay-per-ride card with my panhandling earnings and hold onto the quarter I have left over. Yay me.

According to the monitors the train is due to arrive in three minutes. I've been whistled at twice and received another offer for paid sex just in the time it took me to buy a ticket so I move as out of the way as possible and try to blend into the wall while I wait on the train's arrival.

I am sort of curious about the sex offer. Like I wonder what he wanted and how much he was willing to pay. Not that I would have! Of course not. But it'd be nice to know how much I could fetch in a jam. Just saying.

The subways in New York have these incredible old tile mosaics spelling out the names of the stops. I find the workmanship so lovely in an age of neon signs and electronic monitors. They're so permanent in an era of disposability. I'm in the midst of examining the tiny tiles, marveling over how they must be near a hundred years old, when I feel someone beside me. When you live in the city you get pretty good at detecting people in your personal space versus just passing by, so I take a step to the right and turn, expecting another prostitution offer. I think I'm just gonna ask this time what kind of money we're talking about because I always imagined myself as a high-end call girl and not a twenty-dollar-blow-job hooker. I mean, if it ever came to that. It's like three back-up plans behind waitressing in Hawaii.

But it's not an offer for sex. It's the hottie from yesterday, grinning at me in all his dimpled glory.





Chapter Four


"So you're one of those girls," he says. His tone and expression are solemn as he shakes his head a little.

"Which girls?" I ask, confused.

"The crazy ones," he says with a laugh and drops his gaze to my dress. The dimples are in full force and his eyes are sparkling with mirth.

"Well, that's rude."

"How is that rude?" His brows fly up and he looks aghast in a teasing sort of way. "It was a compliment."

"How is calling someone crazy a compliment?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"Well, the crazy ones are usually good in bed."

"Well, I'm not," I say dismissively. Dick.

"You're not good in bed?" He tilts his head in my direction and lowers his voice. "Are you sure? I bet you've got crazy untapped sexual potential."

"No, I'm not crazy," I reply with a shake of my head but I can't help but smile. Untapped sexual potential? What a jackass.

"Of course not. It's just what? Wedding Wear Friday at your office?"

"Oh, I get it. You're one of those guys."

"Which guys?" he asks, but he's smiling.

"The asshole ones."

"Possibly." He nods. "I can't say it's never been mentioned."

"I bet."

The train pulls in and I move towards the doors as they open. Of course he follows. There's no reason to stand on that platform unless you're waiting on the next train, so I assumed he'd follow.