Myron hesitated. "No."

"I'm a good cook, you know. We dated in college, so I didn't have much chance to demonstrate my culinary skills."

"I remember you cooking for me once," Myron said.

"I did?"

"In my wok."

Emily chuckled. "That's right, you had an electric wok in your dorm, right?"

"Yep."

"I almost forgot about that," Emily said. "Why did you have one, anyway?"

"To impress chicks."

"Really?"

"Sure. I thought I'd invite a girl up to my room, slice up some vegetables, add a little soy sauce--"

"To the vegetables?" she asked.

"For starters."

"So how come you never pulled that one on me?"

"Didn't have to."

"You calling me easy, Myron?"

"How exactly does one answer that," Myron asked, "and maintain possession of both testicles?"

"Come on over," Emily said. "I'll make us some dinner. No soy sauce."

Another hesitation.

"Please don't make me ask again," Emily said.

He wanted very much to say no. "Okay."

"Just take Route 4--"

"I know the way, Emily."

He hung up then and checked the rearview mirror. The black Oldsmobile Ciera was still following. Better safe than sorry. Myron hit the preprogrammed number on his cell phone. After one ring, Win answered.

"Articulate," Win said.

"Got a tail, methinks."

"License plate?"

Myron read it off to him.

"Where should we coordinate?"

"Garden State Plaza mall," Myron said.

"On my way, fair maiden."

Myron stayed on Route 4 until he saw a sign for the Garden State Plaza. He took a rather complicated cloverleaf overpass and veered into the mall's lot. The black Olds followed, dropping back a bit. Stall time. Myron circled a few times before finding a parking space. The Olds kept its distance. He turned off the car and headed for the "Northeast Entrance."

The Garden State Plaza had all the artificial elements endemic in malls--the mall ear-pop when you enter, the stale mall air, the mall hollow acoustics, as though all sound were traveling through a high-volume distorter-- the audial equivalent of a shower door, voices somehow rendered both loud and incomprehensible. Too much with the high ceilings and faux marble, nothing soft to cushion the sound.

He strolled through the nouveau riche section of the Garden State Plaza, past several barren shoe stores, the kind that display maybe three pairs of shoes on the ends of what look like deer antlers. He reached a store called Aveda, which sold wildly overpriced cosmetics and lotions. The Aveda saleswoman, a starving young thang in tourniquet-tight black, informed Myron that they were having a sale on face moisturizers. Myron refrained from crying out "Yippee!" and went on his way. Victoria's Secret was next, and Myron did that male surreptitious glance at the lingerie window displays. Most of your more sophisticated heterosexual males are well versed in this art, awarding the racily clad supermodels the most casual of once-overs, feigning a lack of interest in the blown-up, blown-clear images of Stephanie and Frederique in Miracle Bras. Myron, of course, did the same thing--and then he thought, why pretend? He stopped short, squared his shoulders, ogled in earnest. Honesty. Shouldn't a woman respect that in a man too?