The next day, I put on a thirties-style dress, red lipstick, and scuffed Mary Janes. Only Tommy and his crappy camera were at the subway station; the other two guys had gotten Yankee tickets. We took the 1 to the D train, and I was completely self-conscious. People smiled at us like I was with my guy who was about to ship off to the Pacific Ocean Theater. Tommy pressed up against the windows when the train went above ground, snapping pictures of the distant Statue of Liberty. By the time we reached Coney Island, the hazy sun was lowering in the sky like a big orange egg yolk, and we walked down to the boardwalk talking closely. It’s a strange kind of thing where you go somewhere new with someone you don’t really know and when you get there you know him better than the strange place, so a sort of false intimacy hatches. I, Tommy’s tour guide, had never been to Coney Island before, but I acted like I knew what I was doing and where I was going. We ate a Nathan’s hot dog (which twenty years later is still repeating on me) and held hands. We stopped at a photo booth so he could get a picture of himself in front of a brightly painted backdrop of frolicking mermaids. The Korean photographer screamed at me to get in the shot with Tommy even though I kept insisting I was not his girlfriend. But then I worried the photographer thought I was a hooker, so I got in the picture. Tommy and I walked down to the water and he told me how strange it felt to look out at ships from the shore. “It must be weird to you that I’m more comfortable out there,” he said. On the train ride back we talked like old friends, he kissed me, but it was very held-back. Walking me home from the station, under faint city stars, he kept shaking his head and saying proudly, “Oh, sometimes I hate what a respectable guy I am!” He gave me a kiss good-bye and I sauntered up my stairs. When I got inside the vestibule I watched him walk up the street, stopping to take a picture of my deli."
