We’re late to meet our friend.  We pass by a tall, thin woman with a face like a Pterodactyl.  Being thin must be how she gets clients.  It’s her gimmick:  “I’m a good buy because your wife isn’t thin like I am.” But maybe she’s not really a hooker, because she looks scared.  I figure the first thing hookers learn is to not look scared. And if she’s not a hooker, why is she wearing black fishnet stockings and a mini skirt?

Five teenage boys walking in front of us don’t overly appear to be scared.  They’re talking in low, rumbly tones. But they never venture more than five inches apart from each other.  They’re a gang of five, linked together by invisible handcuffs.

A guy leans against a wall covered with gigantic, swooping graffiti lettering. Five feet away from him, people are laughing and hanging out in a doorway.  Ignoring them, he lights a cigarette.  Just for an instant it lights up his entire face.

A pretty looking couple walk quickly down the sidewalk, arms clutched tight around each other.  They stare straight ahead and march in unison, reminding me of a guided missile. They don’t realize that they’re drawing more attention to themselves by looking anxious.  If they relaxed, people would just assume that they’re out to score some drugs and then go party with their friends.  They’re not in any danger anyway.  The only one noticing them is me.

We arrive at the theater ten minutes late.  Our friend is mildly annoyed.  She had tried to call me to see where we were, but for some reason I didn’t hear the ring.  She says, “When you’re waiting at the theater alone, you sort of join this contingent of single people who go stand out on the curb while they wait for a date to arrive.  They all pull out their phones and call their best friends and say ‘I think I’ve been stood up.’” I apologize, although I know that there’s much worse ways to be alone in the city.