It was obvious to Brody. It was obvious to the cashier at the Westside Market, where I stopped a little before midnight to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I saw myself reflected in the store window. My thin black tie and pressed white shirt were visible beneath my wool coat as I emptied my grocery basket of the chicken, milk, eggs, Frosted Flakes and a jar of tomato sauce. A New York Lifestyles reporter living it up on a Saturday night. The cashier, a kind-faced Hispanic teenager, seemed to look at me with pity as she rang up my meager items. She probably had a hot date lined up after her shift. She gave me an encouraging smile when she handed me my change, as if to say, “You’re not such a bad-looking guy. A little scrawny for my taste, but I’m sure there’s a woman somewhere who would be willing to go out with you.” As I trudged home, I needed moral support. I started dialing Hope’s number before allowing myself to consider if it was too late to call. She answered her phone breathlessly.
