Standing at the curb, conspirators in a crowd that did not know them, they felt the electric warmth of newness, of possibility, running through their bones. Below them, in the carnival of Times Square, the lights of the cars hurtled by with a wondrous joy that seemed to say: This is what it would look like if we screwed.

“The next time we’re out and there’s music, we should dance,” he said, leaning toward her. They were standing in the street now, between a Mustang and a Blazer. She was tipping to hail a cab. His languid words were germinated seeds of lust. His voice, strong but weighted, did not ascend above a whisper. “I should’ve thought of that inside. I should have asked you … but I like to ask for what I know I’ll get. I don’t handle disappointment very well.”

“I wouldn’t have disappointed you,” she said, bolder now than she would have been had she not been drinking. “Here’s what I would’ve done.” She wet her lips unconsciously, which signaled him that her mouth was a silken purse that would close itself around his pearls of joy. “I would’ve danced with you … fast or slow … however you like it. I hope it would be slow though. You have to be slow to be sexy. You do a lot of things slow, don’t you, Fire?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “You walk slow … you talk slow.” She pursed her lips and stroked his face with streams of air. “I’ve never seen you eat though. I hope you do that slow as well.”

“Well, it all depends on what I’m eating,” he said, pretending to tie his shoelace. She was leaning back against the Mustang now, her hips thrust forward, her thighs ajar. “It also depends on how hungry I am … and how much I like this thing … and whether or not I’m eating in public. Because as you know, none of us eats the same way in public as we do in private. In private you don’t care if the gravy runs down your chin. Cause if there’s enough to dribble then there must be even more to lick. And come on, now,” he grazed her shin with his cheek as he slowly rose. “Some things you just can’t eat with finesse. Like fried chicken. It doesn’t taste good unless your lips get greasy—your whole face, really. Your fingers too.” He flipped her hem with his nose. “Y’have a skillet?” he asked, standing erect now.

“Yes,” she said, spreading her legs, blind to the stares of passersby. Deaf to their giggles. He slipped a bare foot between her knees.

“And what about skills?” he asked, pinching her thigh with his toes. “Y’have skills? You need skills to skin the chicken, y’know. I don’t like mine with the skin on it. D’you know how to skin it and pluck it? I don’t like supermarket chicken, y’know. Chicken should be fresh. The meat must still be warm when you cook it.”