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find a fridge stocked with juice and beer. He didn’t want to go out again but the idea of take-away— take out here—made him scowl. The cold weather, his hunger, and his increasing lack of sleep made him irritable, and he didn’t like being alone with himself when he was irritable. To top it all off somewhere in this city of over eight million people was a grey-eyed girl named Alice. And she had the upper hand as well as his squirming heart.
    With a resigned sigh and an increasingly sharp temper, Luke once again left the apartment. He told himself that he wanted to see other people moving and eating, to remind himself that the world went on even when girls who completely mesmerized you gave you a fake name and dashed expectations.
    “What would be a good place to get dinner?” he asked the first person he met in the stairwell. Persons. Three men and two women, probably neighbors of Alfred’s he’d never noticed.
    One of the men snorted. “This is New York. This is Lower East Side. There are a million places you can get a good dinner.”
    “What do you want to eat?” One of the women asked helpfully.
    Luke was at a loss. “I don’t know. Can’t you just name me a place, any place?”
    They lost their smiles. Luke realized he was tired, hungry, and as polite as a colicky baby. He took a deep breath. Before he could apologize, the older gentleman said, “Try Otto on Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. You’ll find it. Ask around. My sister works there. Tell her you’re Andres’s friend.” The man pronounced the restaurant like the Italian number rather than the German name. Luke’s heart soared, a taste of home! He began thinking of red wines, fine cheeses, and small plates of cured meat. He could easily spend three hours in a good restaurant and completely forget about this Alice figure. Woman. Devil.
    “Thank you,” he said with real gratitude. It was a blanket statement and the New Yorkers all nodded back, forgiving his previous outburst. As the door closed on Luke, he heard Andres say, “That wasn’t Alfred, was it?”
    “Maybe his grouchy twin,” the woman replied. He wasn’t used to hearing people disparage him in such close proximity. Luke also wasn’t used to fending for himself; he was rarely hungry at home since they had regular meals together. If he ever did feel peckish after a long run or a tiring day, there was always a bountiful kitchen teeming with chefs ready and eager with menus.
    Luke took another taxi and told the driver to take him to Otto on Fifth and Eighth. He felt like a spoiled brat, angry that he didn’t have the toy he wanted. Alice wasn’t a toy, he reminded himself, she was a woman. He had given her the power to find him but he hadn’t expected her to be silent for so long. He gazed out the window to take his mind off his stomach and his heart.
    Traffic was thick and Luke didn’t even try to keep track of every corner they turned in the driver’s efforts to avoid jams. An out of breath bicycle messenger kept steady pace a few meters behind the swerving taxi, vowing to demand a raise.
    They passed Strand Bookstore and Luke cried out, “ Para !”
    “What?” said the driver, dangerously turning his head toward Luke without braking.
    “Stop, please. I’ll get off here.” The taxi slammed to a halt and a bicycle shot past with choice oaths and an angry fist knocking on the window. He pulled over a few car lengths ahead, grateful for the break despite the close call. The cyclist watched a tall young man exit the cab and rush into a bookstore.
    Luke had paid the driver in three bills, not looking at which they were.
    “My friend!” shouted the taxi driver, bewildered by the flush of cash. But Luke was already in the store.
    Strand Bookstore. Of course. Alice had said he’d find her here. She hadn’t said her name was Alice Strand. Luke had only assumed it, and she’d laughed. 18 Miles of Books , he whistled appreciatively. Of course she would be here. This was her