it got to do with me'? I say. He says, 'It has a great deal to do with you.' A great deal, my ass! You know? And he blows that rotten cigar smoke in my face and I want like hell to tell him where to shove it, but I don't. I say 'Okay, sir, okay.' Just like a goodamn parrot. For ten years I say 'Okay, okay, okay', just like some parrot. And God! I hate myself! You know? Ten years!' The woman doesn't look at him. She says "Honey . . . let's just walk, huh? I mean, it's hot!”

"Sure." He walks. "But I'm fed up, you know?"

"Honey," she says (and you can tell she means another word). "Every night! I mean, it's old. It gets old, honey!" She gathers up that little dog and loves it.

They pass. Other couples follow them; the conversation is the same; each pair a different chapter.

You walk along and look and wait. Finally you go through the gate and down the path toward the rocks that stand like battleships beside the little lake, where there are kids and toy boats. You see the guy sitting on the bench; you see his eyes. You stop to light a cigarette, and look again, and you know for sure. You walk slowly to the water, hearing the kids laughing; you watch them, trying to keep from remembering. And then this little dark-haired kid comes up, with his big brown eyes wet with a sadness that rips you up inside. "Mister, will you get my boat?"

"Sure, son. Sure. Which one?"

He points to it and you feel like crying too. "It's too far out, son."

"You can get it, Mister. I know you can! Please!"

But you can't reach it, and the kid just stands there looking at you. You feel the big balloon deflating.

"Here," a voice says, and the guy from the bench hands you a long stick.. You meet his eyes.

You give the kid his boat and he forgets he ever spoke to you.

"You watch," the guy says, "he'll lose it again."

you nod your head.

"Nice night," he says.

You nod again and say, "Yes, I'd like a drink, too."

And you both laugh.

The black pavement almost steams beside the park. As far as you can see there are cars, bunching along the streets, from one light to another, to another, to another. But when you cross the street at the intersection, walking toward the leaning mass of brownstones, the pavement parts into iron grillework and stairs where people gallop underground to where the tile is a dull ivory and there are hundreds of penny machines which spill little brown peanuts and juicy-fruit wrappers across the blackened platforms, and there are crayon and pencil and even lipstick dirty words encased in tile squares, and advertisements made lewd by amateurs, and cave-man pornographs, framed in tile like artwork. And people stand impatiently until the cold blasts of air announce the train from the dark tunnel, and the clatter sounds rush out, and then the light, and then the sliding, sighing doors, and then the herd.

You sit there reading the laxative advertisement and wonder how they had the guts to print it. You say "You know, I like the subway. I hate taxis. I hate the smart-ass drivers. I hate the buses too. But I like the subway. I don't know why."

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