I didn't have trouble finding him. He was stickering grapefruits with his back to me. He had a lot of curly black hair on the back and sides of his head and none on the top. The top of his head looked like a big pink egg. He was just under five feet, and built like a fireplug.

I put a sack of potatoes in my cart, and I cruised over to him. "Excuse me," I said.

He turned, tilted his head back and looked at me. His fat fish lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"Nice apples," I said.

He made a gurgling sound, and his eyes slid down to my chest.

"So," I said, "you have any dope?"

"What are you kidding me? What do I look like?"

"A friend of mine said I could get some dope from you."

"Oh yeah? Who's your friend?"

"Joyce Barnhardt."

This got his eyes to light up in a way that told me Joyce probably hadn't paid cold cash for her marijuana.

"I know Joyce," he said. "But I'm not saying I sold her any dope."

"We have another mutual friend."

"Who's that?"

"Her name's Nowicki."

"I don't know anybody named Nowicki."

I gave him a description.

"That must be Francine," he said. "She's a pip. I just never knew her last name."

"Good customer?"

"Yeah. She buys lots of fruit."

"See her lately?"

His voice got crafty. "What's it worth to you?"

I didn't like the sound of this. "What do you want?"

Bernie made a smoochy sound.

"Gross!"

"It's because I'm short, isn't it?"

"No. Of course not. I like short men. They, um, try harder."

"Then it's the hair, right? You want a guy with hair."

"Hair doesn't matter. I could care less about hair. And besides, you have plenty of hair. It's just not on the top of your head."

"Then what?"

"You don't just go around making smoochy sounds at women! It's . . . cheap."

"I thought you said you were friends with Joyce."

"Oh yeah. I see your point."

"So how about it?"

"The truth is, I'm not actually attracted to you."

"I knew it. I could tell all along. It's my height."

Jeez, the poor schnook really had a thing about his height. I mean, it wasn't as if he could help being born short or having a head like a bowling ball. I didn't want to compound his problem, but I didn't know what to say. And then I thought of Sally! "It's not your height," I said. "It's me. I'm a lesbian."

"You're shitting me!"

"No. Really."

He looked me up and down. "Are you sure? Christ, what a waste! You don't look like a lesbian."

I guess he thought lesbians had a big L burned into their foreheads, or something. Although, since I don't know any lesbians I'm not exactly an authority.

"You have a girlfriend?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. She's . . . waiting in the car."

"I want to see her."

"Why?"