I listened without saying a word. Metro tried to eat. By Metro’s slow motions I could tell that the food had suddenly lost its taste. My mouth was dry, too dry for words.

“You see, Jesse, when I want to find out something about a person, I’ll do anything to find it out. I’d thought about asking you, but I knew it would be too easy for you to lie. And I simply just had to know.”

My lips seemed to crack. I didn’t know what Metro was thinking then, but I was scared and worried for both of us. I looked at Vester, straight at him. His eyes pierced me like the words from his round face.

“I had to know. And when I found out what I wanted to know, Jesse,” and then Vester looked sharply at Metro, then back to me, “I was disgusted.”

“Disgusted? But I didn’t do anything,” I said.

Vester rose from the table. His plate was half-empty. He kicked back the chair and stood tall. I could only stare in disbelief. I had done nothing. He walked stiffly to another table. Metro also stared after him, then at me. Metro made only the simplest gestures for control; looking at his food, fingering his throat. We said nothing. Silence was all we ate.

“Why do you call me Metro?”

“You were in France. Once.”

“Why do you call me Metro?”

“You’ve been places where I want to go.”

“Why do you call me Metro?”

“Take me, baby. Take me underground.”

“Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?” Another knock at the door. “Go away.”

“It’s me—Clementine. You all right in there?”

“Yes. I’m all right.”

“I thought I heard you crying.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Good, because when I come back, I’m gonna be greased and ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Don’t you know by now?”

I rolled on my side away from the door. The picture frames on the desk were empty, the football pennants torn. The open textbook: Jon-Michael Barthé, ’75. Not Metro. But then he didn’t know who I was, either. Not after commencement and his trip back home to Louisiana.

“Why this apartment, Jesse?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“There’s hardly any room.”

“There’s room enough.”

“Why this neighborhood, Jesse?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Why grow your hair so long? Why the Afro pick in the bathroom? Why are all the criminals in the streets black? Why are we in New York?”

“I’m here to dance.”

“I’m scared, Jesse. I’m really scared. I hate taking the subways. I hate working at night. I hate their dark faces. They’re just too dark, too black.”

“Like looking straight into a subway tunnel? Afraid you won’t get out?”

“I’m scared, Jesse.”