The cop looked at me out of the corner of his eye again. I put my hands on the bar, fingers splayed, my new set of keys hard and sharp against my palm.

“Do you live around here?” I asked.

“Nah, Brooklyn Heights.”

I struggled to find my straw. “You still work around here?”

“In Manhattan.”

“What are you doing out here?”

We were playing twenty questions; he was losing interest.

“Nostalgia, I guess. Or more like curiosity.”

“You just came out here to have a drink alone?”

I drew out the word “alone,” trying to make it sound sad. It’s not hard with that word.

“Could ask you the same question.”

We stared at each other. My little legs had somehow become entwined in his big ones. It just happens that way, when you’re at a bar and turn toward each other. The barstool was still rocking underneath me, but at least it was good for something.

I said, “Do you want to get out of here, get some food?”

He didn’t answer but opened his fat wallet, paid both our tabs, and drank the rest of his beer in one gulp. The bartender handed me back my card, uncharged.

Outside, twilight was gathering, but the air was still warm, the warmth swimming around me. My legs felt watery. I was so weak, I was evaporating. I wasn’t sure I could make it to the restaurant. I grabbed his arm, a gesture disguised as flirtation but really meant to steady myself.

He laughed. “You okay?”

I smiled at him, my face indolent, droopy. “I’m great. Hungry.”

“Let’s get you some food.”

As we walked I felt him reach over and pull down my skirt in the back. He did it quickly, not saying anything. I didn’t feel embarrassed; I was still holding the keys to my new job. That was the important thing.

On Nostrand Avenue we ordered roti at a counter. There were stacks of cake in clamshell containers next to the register. I asked for one and then took out my wallet, even though it was empty. He put a hand on my hand, pulled out his own again. I smiled and couldn’t stop smiling, though it made my sad, weak face hurt. I was going to eat on someone else’s dime. I commended myself. He was such a good find; cops want to take care of people. I thanked him, patted his arm, a little overeager, but what did it matter?