”“But I thought you didn’t ... I mean ... you and me,” she stammered.“Do you still like him?” I asked, cutting through the bullshit.“Yea...,” she said and looked down at her twisting fingers.“Maybe it’s real, Bee. I never expected to find what I did with Sam. Maybe he’s your Sam. What kind of person would I be to stop you from finding out?”That made her eyes fill with tears. “I never meant to hurt you.”“It was my fault. I assumed you were serious about being my girlfriend.” The sad smile I gave. She’d read extensively about New York City. The Fish Market was housed in two main adjacent open-air structures, where wholesale buyers—mostly restaurant employees—filled orders and bargained on goods during the early morning hours. She turned a full 360 degrees looking about her, but only a few scattered tourists and several restaurant workers were close by. No rude fish market workers were slamming fish-hooks into fat striped bass, as she had imagined they would, or deftly slicing up tuna. More

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