I fold the rosemary into the mixture, crushing it gently between thumb and forefinger of one hand, stirring with the other. A fragrant steam rises from the surface of the concoction and I crack another clove of garlic, lifting a knife from the worktable. Observing the consistency of the liquid, I bring it to a boil and reduce.

I can tell she likes me and out of guilt, I always smile at her and decline her invitations respectfully. Her mouth always bends down so slight as to be hidden, then smiles too big and chimes maybe another time. Maybelle is her name. Her eyes are sad – the color of a cornflower crayon. She is mousy and introverted, but not timid. I would guess she’s in her late twenties, and living alone. She reminds me of a lonely pet, almost desperate for love. Sometimes I almost want to say yes, but know it would only make the situation harder, and watch her retreat once again back to her cutting board in embarrassment.

No one else in class really talks to me much except Alejandro. He will talk for twenty minutes on end in his exaggerated Chicano accent, never expecting a word in return. He‘s one of those genuine nice guys who winks regularly and probably gives up his seat on the train to single mothers with strollers. Alejandro lives in Queens with his girlfriend. She has never come to a final review dinner though, and sometimes I suspect he made her up entirely.

The culinary school is in Manhattan. Twice a week I commute to 40th and 7th to stir sauces and reduce. When I get home, I stand at my own half size stove, still in my smock and clogs, and toss scallion pancakes. I’ve been trying to perfect the recipe to taste like the Chinese places’ down the street. The still pot rack watches me cook from above on the yellow wall.

I live in Brooklyn, near Park Slope, in a railroad apartment two flights of stairs above a Carnival Ice Cream sign. I get my mail from the bodega owner downstairs. The apartment itself is decent – I painted the kitchen yellow and hung some records in the windowless living room to cover the holes.

My roommates are never home and their doors always closed, as if they were part of the wall. The strip of light along the floorboards is the only way I can tell there is actually a room on the other side.

Inside the first door lives Graham. He is lanky and pale with a uni-brow, like one of those almost perfect looking Calvin Klein models in cologne ads. His pretentious friends called him Cracker. What he does or where he goes every day isn't clear, but nothing about Graham is. His eyes have secrets that no one cares enough to find out.

The girl lives in the back room and has to pass through my room every night to get to it. She is shoulder height to me with orange hair and thick black glasses. She is Polish and wears scuffed boots with skirts. The cat is hers'.

I often come home to a dark apartment, one light on her, curled in the rocking chair like a crab reading deep essays for her classes at the School for New Social Research. She never looks up, just tightens her features and reads; slowly petting the cat with soft finger pulls to a chicken wire fence.

They aren't my friends. They are my friend's friends. She set me up with them after she moved out to Louisville to follow a boy who liked her. I feel like they did it as a favor for her, but now regret it. I would feel sad about it, but really don't care that much. I blame their bitterness on my painting the kitchen yellow. I smile, stirring the contents of the pot, following the directions imprinted in my head and reduce.

Getting a job in New York City is a nightmare, so landing the spot at the comic book store was a miracle. It is in the Village between a novelty porn store and a cruddy T-shirt souvenir shop. I hate having to see those crappy shirts when I stand outside with Kate while she smokes her cigarettes. The horrible parodies relaying trendy designer logos like Adidas to marijuana.

Kate is my work pal. She is a total rock star. I call her Kate Rock. She has choppy red hair and blue painted eyelids. Every ten minutes of the night shift we share, she’s outside the storefront blowing smoke through her shiny red lips. From the sticker-encrusted counter inside, I watch her converse with a tall guy in a hoodie.

What is it with smokers? They always have something to talk about. Like asking for a light denotes this bond that ensures comfortable conversation for the remainder of the cigarette. I mean, what do they talk about? Smoking? Doubtful. But they laugh, maintain eye contact, foster rapport, and… talk. Complete strangers who share nothing in common. Often opposites. Maybe I’d have charisma too, if only they didn’t disgust me. Cigarettes, I mean. But second-hand smoke is settling for coolness by association.

Outside, Kate laughs and slaps the shoulder of her opposite. Before I realize what I’m doing, I push through the door onto the sidewalk and pluck the cigarette from behind Kate’s ear and suck in as the nameless boy lights the tip. Her eyes focus on me for more than a moment.

“Since when do you smoke?” She asks. I shrug and blow the smoke up, stifling a cough. Smugly, she turns her eyes back to the street and smiles to herself.

Today, I am learning to talk to strangers.

Standing over my stockpot, I think about everything. When I cook, my mind does more work than my hands. I obsess over recent happenings, people, my shaky life, my pompous roommates, my future, what I am going to wear tomorrow. Everything, and in sickening detail. The curry bubbles as my thoughts about my hollow love life erupt into the mix. I feel the pressure of Maybelle’s eyes on my back and want to scream. I live in New York City – shouldn’t there be a plethora of opportunity? But what do I have? One girl who would’ve been old enough to baby-sit me when I was little, who is… a girl.

I suppose I haven’t really tried to find anyone. I mean, I haven’t gone to any seedy clubs on Friday nights cruising for “dates” or anything – I would sooner be alone than get involved with a clubber. What ever happened to everyday meetings, love at first site, first dates? I feel a hand tap my shoulder.

“Your curry…” Maybelle says. I see Alejandro raise an eyebrow from across the worktable. I look down at the pot and quickly lift it from the burner, smoke breaking through the thick yellow liquid, burning underneath.

I spend most of my time on the train. Back and forth beneath the East River like an invisible reflection of the bridges high above. I find it kind of unnerving and often catch myself peering up into the dark for some sign of leakage. The truth of the matter is that I kind of need it – the daily train trip – to keep me sane. Other than when I’m cooking, it is the only time I feel really alone and able to sort things out. It’s funny how in the presence of so many people, you can feel so isolated. I crowd in-between an old woman holding a wilted paper bag and a black teenage girl with stiffly hair sprayed bangs, waiting silently for my stop.

After picking up my paycheck, I continue down St. Marks until it becomes 8th Street, entering the Village. I make my way to the bookstore on the corner, not looking either way before crossing the street. Inside, it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the low light. A lazy cat lays on the edge of the counter. As my hand meets its furry head, I raise my eyes and freeze. The store worker is conversing with an elderly lady in bright clothes. As they speak, I can’t help but stare. He then helps the next person in line, answers a phone call, chats with a co-worker – while I stand inert, one hand on the grey cat.

It’s the angle of his closed eyes, jaw and light sideburns as he bends his head in laughter. And the way he squints one eye when placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A crooked smile in mid conversation. The way his sandy stubble hugs his upper lip, his chin, the edges of his jawbone. A hand sifting through short messy locks in thought. The turning of a brittle page. I am caught.

Inhaling clumsily, I feel a general lack of control over my body as I move toward the bookshelves – poetry aisle. A…Atwood, Auden… My eyes pass over the titles, unable to concentrate on anything but whether or not he has noticed me yet. My eyes focus on the ledge of the shelf, the printed letter B taped to the wood – in and out of focus as I breathe.

Christ, this is bad. I think I should be worried - that seeing a person across a room can actually do this to me. My hand fumbles on the shelf for a book. Cisneros, Loose Woman. I laugh.

“You find her work amusing?” A voice asks. I turn. I swear I can see the hazel flecks in his radiant green irises.

“No – I mean, I was just surprised you had this book,” I lie. “I’ve been looking for it…” I open the book identical to mine at home.

He was watching me, clouded eyes, impossible to read. I could feel sweat spring to my temples.

“ I heard her speak once. She’s incredible.”

I nod, my eyes tracing the movement of his mouth, memorizing the sound of his voice. There is a pause, and I am surprised when he doesn’t walk away.

“Is there anything else I can help you find?” He asks. I shake my head, glancing at the shelves.

“Just…looking, I think.”

He takes a step forward, reaches his hand out (my breath catches), pulls a paperback from the shelf, and hands it to me. It is James Kavanaugh.

“Have you read him?” I shake my head, another lie I want to kick myself for. “I think you’d like him.” He smiles, and starts to turn. “Oh, Cisneros. Page 34… It’s my favorite,” he adds. I flip to the page. It is Waiting for a Lover. I notice he turns his head back and smiles again as he makes his way to the front of the store. I read the words I’ve read a million times before, only this time without breath:

Listen – cars roar by. All night.

I’m waiting for the one that stops.

All my life. Listen—

Hear that?

Yikes.

“That was clearly a come on, don’t be meek!” Kate Rock scolds. We puff our cigarettes. It is getting colder, and we need our coats now to go out front.

“But I’ve never had to react to such an ambiguous come on before. Like, aren’t there rules about this stuff?” I ash and watch the powder land on my shoe.

“There are rules for everything.” She straightens her little boy clip-on tie over red and white checked shirt. “I think you should respond just as ambiguous. You know, return one of the books, with your number written on the inside flap.” I cringe.

Like always, I avoid the situation and try not to think about it. But not thinking in bed is near impossible. And just as I am verging on sleep, the door opens and I hear the cat’s paws pad across the room to the door on the other side. Through squinted eyes, I see the girl in the doorway, leering at me – instead of being sorry she woke me, I can tell she is annoyed that she has to pass through my room. I squeeze my eyes shut, hearing Graham’s 3am feet shuffling behind his door as the girl’s boots clunk past me to her own.

It is Saturday and Washington Square is packed. I find a cement ledge and sit, opening the crisp Kavanaugh book. As I begin the first poem, I feel eyes on me. I look up and see him, on the other side of the fountain. He grins, and half-waves. I start to smile back, then I see her. A cute hipster girl with cute black hair and cute red glasses and a cute yellow coat. She attacks him from behind, planting cute kisses on his neck. I suppose my disappointment is apparent – his eyes, still on me, look apologetic. Almost guilty, like he’s been caught – like he feels sorry for me. Like he’s had it happen before.

The square between us seems to grow and I can barely see him anymore. I look down at the poem again, holding back the natural reaction. Shadows of birds and small clouds drift across the bright page as I attempt to read through shiny eyes. There are men too gentle to live among wolves… I close the book.

On the subway back to Brooklyn, I imagine the violins swelling as the flashes of dulled light outside the smudgy windows create a rhythm, and can’t help but laugh despite the brimming tears. God, how bad teen movie the day has been.

Kate Rock smacks her gum loudly and stares at the comic book, squinting occasionally while pulling at a tiny strand of her short hair that sticks out above her ear. My eyes roll back to the front door, stale late afternoon gloom shining a gray square across the interior of the shop. A couple of guys in their thirties with pony tails and beer guts fuss over collector Captain America comics near the back of the store. The day is as bleak as the fluorescent lights that tinge our faces yellow-green. As if the past ten minutes of silence hasn’t existed, Kate Rock continues.

“She might not have been his girlfriend.”

“Give me a break! We are not going over this again.” I break away from the counter and busy my hands with straightening comics on the wall display.

“Well, I mean, you go everywhere with girls – it could just as easily be assumed any one of them is your girlfriend.”

“No, I go places alone or with you.” I glance over at her. “And no one thinks we are together.” She cracks a smile.

“Maybe you’re right… But I still don’t think he plays on my team!” The two men look up at us and Kate Rock glowers back. “You fellas need help finding something?” She asks in the least hospitable tone she can muster. Silently, they return their eyes to their search. I sigh as the light level outside officially reaches dark.

I’m not sure why I agreed, but Kate Rock convinced me to go out with the kids from the store after close. So at midnight I am standing out on the steps with Pat Chow, Tonissa, Kate Rock, and some guys I assume are someone’s friends as Ben pulls the grate down over the storefront and locks up. Our breath lights the area between us, the street light above reflecting blue-white on the steam. Pat Chow, like always, doesn’t say much, but stares you in the eye like you’re an idiot. An endearing trait, or so everyone thinks. Ben is being moody, which is common for him, and Kate Rock tells him he’ll never get a girl, which relates somehow to the conversation and everyone laughs, except Pat Chow. He inhales his cigarette through the side of his lips and stares at me though his thick glasses. Looking down at my shoes, I wish I were somewhere else.

We walk the ten or so blocks to Manny’s, and I realize though I walk the same streets during the day, I don’t think that I’ve ever noticed Manny’s other than at night. The musty amber light emanating from the bar envelops me along with the smell of beer, warm conversation making the air fuzzy. I feel as if I’ve entered an altered state of mind – drunk on the atmosphere.

We occupy a few tables opposite the bar and Ben goes to get us some beers. The bodies sitting at the bar are silhouetted by red lights, but that’s all it takes for me to recognize him. I can’t believe he is here, now. It appears like he is alone, though he converses with the guy next to him. The cute girl is not present.

I hit Kate Rock’s thigh, harder than anticipated, and point to the bar with a wide-eyed jerk of my head. She mouths him? And I nod, sending her hand to her mouth. She mouths cute and I laugh, looking over at him again.

He is wearing a thick gray sweater and blue pinstripe pants, his hair disheveled. With his back to me, I notice the sturdiness of his body as he shifts, how his shoulders and back muscles move under his sweater. Breathing heavily, I swig the Miller’s High Life that I think Ben ordered as a joke.

A few beers later, I am feeling more vocal and less detached from the group, and I actually find myself laughing about something with Pat Chow. Realizing the need to pee, I get up and pass the bar, pretending not to look. The bright light in the small restroom ghastly conflicts with the other room and upon looking in the mirror, I realize just how drunk I really am. That’s always how I can always tell. When I look in the mirror after peeing. Depending on whether I am smiling back, have three eyes, or am drifting upward out of the frame.

I shake it and turn to leave when the door opens and he walks in. I can tell he is drunk too. He looks at me.

“Oh, hey!” He says louder than necessary.

“Hi.” My heart accelerates.

“What did you think of that book?” It seems like a ridiculous question between two drunken men in a seedy bar restroom.

“I liked it a lot, actually.” My voice is inaudible to me, but he seems to hear it. “I’ll have to hit you up for more recommendations in the future,” the social property of the beer talking for me. He cracks that smile and I suddenly feel as sober and vulnerable as a pubescent boy.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name. I’m Scott Bennett.”

“Casey. Uh, McConnell.”

Smiling, he repeats it to himself and I swear it’s the first time I’ve ever heard my name said aloud.

“It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Casey McConnell.”

“Likewise. Scott Bennett.” I can feel myself blushing, but almost hope he notices, not sure why.

I realize he is waiting to pee, and that I should leave. With one last, quick smile, I meekly move around him and push against the sticky wooden door that now seems to weigh a ton.

Walking back down 10th, we stop at a 24-hour falafel shop so Kate Rock can get something to eat.

“What? I’m hungry!” She barks at Pat Chow, who drunkenly watches her tussle with the foil wrapper, a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his lip. Cursing, I remember that the F line is closed late nights for the next two weeks for construction.

“No one is heading to Brooklyn, are they?” I ask, knowing the answer. There is a murmur of apology. Damn, I never take cabs. Mainly because I can’t really afford them. I almost consider walking the Bridge. The wind convinces me otherwise.

“Why didn’t you ask your boyfriend to take you home?” One of the male voices behind me asks. Kate Rock sputters with drunken laughter, spilling iceberg lettuce onto the sidewalk.

“Don’t patronize him, Billy.” She lectures. I realize that not only do I not know whom the extraneous guys are with, but I don’t even know their names. “Don’t listen to them, Sugar,” Kate Rock drawls.

As soon as we hit First Avenue, I see a cab and hail it from the curb. Waving goodnight, I climb inside the humid cab and am greeted by Bernadette Peters’ recorded voice advising me to buckle up.

“Brooklyn. Fifth Avenue.” The dark head on the other side of the plexi-glass nods as I lean back against the worn tan seat, hoping I have enough cash to cover the fare.

Just as I am picking through the heads of cabbage, the mister squirts to life and sprays my sleeve a darker shade of red. I quickly snatch a small one and toss it into my basket. I turn, bumping into a fireman in a tight dark blue tee shirt. Strange, I think, recalling seeing another fireman in the bread aisle. Maybe they all go shopping together.

The checkout line confirms my hypothesis. I wait until there is enough space for me to cram my basket’s contents onto the conveyor belt. The cashier is wearing awkward black glasses that look like those gag Groucho specs with the big plastic nose attached. I can tell he is new by the fresh label reading Greg stuck on his nametag. He calls for a price check on coconut milk and a Jesus candle. Doesn’t everyone know religious candles are always 99 cents? I bag my groceries and take the receipt, thanking Greg for his hard work.

As soon as I pass through the doors and shopping cart barricade, I see Maybelle. Her eyes widen in excitement.

“Oh my God, how funny!” She beams. I instantly wish I had gone back for the dill I was debating over inside.

“I didn’t know you lived around here.” I say.

“Oh, I don’t. No, I live in Manhattan. I just like shopping at the markets over here. Less pretentious. Better selection. You know.” She bobs her head and shoulders and rolls her eyes to the sky. I nod. “You getting ingredients for your recipe? What are you going to make?”

I explain the molé I’m working on and she coos encouragingly.

“I want to make Fondue Savoyarde – well, a spin on it. But I’m having the damnedest time finding Tomme cheese anywhere.” In explaining her adventures in Jewish Delis previous to our encounter, she somehow changes the subject, asking what I am doing after class tonight. I decide it is time to tell her flat out.

“Maybelle, I’m not like the other boys.” It sounds more asinine than I mean it to. She laughs.

“Of course you’re not.”

“No, I mean…” God, it feels like telling my grandmother or something. “I’m gay.” The second word decreasing in volume, annoying me instantly. That I still have trouble saying it.

She chortles again.

“Well, duh. I’m not dense, Casey. Give me some credit. I live in the world.” Grinning, she looks at the ground, and I can see a dimming in her eyes. “Hey, I should get going, Mister. See you tonight? Looking forward to your molé.” She backs away as she speaks, her smile vacant.

God I need a drink.

“You’re putting chocolate in there?” The girl asks, disgusted.

“Yeah, it’s molé. You’re supposed to.” I respond without taking my eyes off the pot. The cat jumps at my feet, pawing at my legs.

“No Smells, he’s not making it for you,” she scolds. “Go play.” A boot shoves his small body out of the kitchen with a thump.

It is baffling that she is actually speaking to me, voluntarily. I was trying not to panic, calmly stirring the dark brown sauce.

“I thought of you today – we read an essay by this guy who related food to major social stressors in everyday life and said that certain dishes yield different behavior and stuff like that. He was whack.” She tugs on her tights and squints at a power bill tacked to the wall. Though the connection is questionable, I am strangely touched by her comment.

Graham’s door opens, almost giving me a hernia, and he appears in the doorway.

“What are you making? Not those bird seed pancakes again.”

“They weren’t bird seed,” I snap. The girl cackles.

“Yeah they were.”

“You’re putting chilies in that chocolate sauce.” Graham says. I nod.

“It’s some Mexican thing, don’t ask.” The girl says, pushing past him into the living room. I hear the click of the reading light and know the moment is adjourned. After a brief survey of the room, Graham turns and mopes back into his dark doorway, disappearing into the wall once again.

I think it’s the stubble I miss most. God, I didn’t know how sensual kissing could be until I felt the textural benefit of stubble. Scott has nice stubble. I hit myself, wincing. Rolling over, I focus on a different patch of the quilt.

I am instantly reminded of my friend Jeanie from high school. She was out and always complained to me about the aggravation of falling for straight girls. At the time, I had no idea what she felt like, but had nodded all the same.

And is this how I am planning to get over it? Going to a frighteningly hetero club with Alejandro so I can sit and search for a new hetero fixation to latch onto? It is against my creed on so many levels.

“Come on! Let’s dance!” Alejandro urges over the bumping music, but all I can think about is the ten bucks I just wasted.

I lean against the Mylar covered wall and wait, expecting at any moment to either be struck dead or see Scott Bennett dancing freaky with a hoochie. Surprisingly, neither. After downing a few, I get up to dance, finding Alejandro spinning and clapping like a bullfighter in the center of the mirrored dance floor. He is embarrassing in that way that lets you get loose enough to not feel too embarrassed for yourself – because in comparison, you will always be the normal one. Dancing feels good, and the music is so loud, I can’t really hear anymore, just feel it tingling under my skin and pounding in my gut. I am instantly very grateful for Alejandro bringing me here. Kate Rock wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. I can actually imagine Graham here, for some reason, holed up in a bathroom stall with his fashion junkies, snorting lines off a Lil’ Kim cd case through one-dollar bills. The image makes me laugh and I look up at the lights, swirling above in programmed patterns. Pink. Yellow. Blue. Green. Purple. Pink. Yellow. Blue.

I walk firmly down 8th Street, the new shoes forcing my steps straight and rigid. As I approach the bookstore, I feel my steps becoming more grueling. The distance keeps pulling back, appearing static as I advance, like that camera technique the Twilight Zone guys were so keen on.

Once inside, I feel his eyes before I see him. The grey cat rubs my leg but quickly withdraws as to not foster any false ideas. Once my eyes adjust, I move toward the aisle he is stocking books in. He turns, setting down a stack of identical paperbacks, meeting me eye to eye.

“Hey, Casey. How’s it going?” He is smiling his smile. I don’t answer right away, but look intently at those hazel flecks floating in the green.

“I have a confession to make,” I begin. He looks less startled than amused. “I had read Sandra Cisneros before that day I first came in here.” My eyes drift slightly, but quickly realign with his. “And Kavanaugh is like one of my favorite poets.”

I look down and notice how good our shoes look facing each other before continuing.