The taxi halted. “Twenty-seven fifty,” the driver said.

It was like being splashed by cold water. I hurriedly rearranged myself and paid. When I exited the car, the girl—Natalie? Nadine?—was already waiting on the steps to her building, smoothing down the front of her skirt. Something loud and large was rattling overhead; I thought we might be in Brooklyn, near the Manhattan Bridge overpass. More grappling at the door and she pushed me away.

“Wait here.” Her face was flushed; she was breathing very fast. “I have something to take care of. I’ll buzz you in.”

She was gone before I could object. Standing on the sidewalk, I tried to reassemble the order of the night’s events. Grand Central, the hours of hopeless waiting. My desolate walk through the icy streets. The warm oasis of the bar, and the girl—Nicole, that was it—smiling and moving closer and putting her hand on my knee and the two of us making our hasty, inevitable exit. I could remember these things, yet none of them seemed completely real. Abandoned in the cold, I felt a rush of panic. I did not want to be alone with my thoughts. How could she have done it? How could Liz have left me standing there, train after train? If the door didn’t buzz soon, I knew, I would literally detonate.

A few agonizing minutes passed. I heard the door open and turned in time to see a woman emerge from the building. She was older, heavyset, perhaps Hispanic. Her body, buried in a bunchy down coat, was hunched against the wind. She had failed to notice me standing in the shadows; I slid behind her and grabbed the door just before it closed.

The lobby encased me with its sudden warmth. I scanned the mailboxes. Nicole Forood, apartment zero. I descended the stairs to the basement, where a single door awaited. I knocked with my knuckles, then, when no one responded, with my fist. My frustration was indescribable. My feelings had annealed to a pure desperation, almost like anger. My fist was raised again when I heard footsteps inside. The complicated unlocking of a New York apartment door commenced; then it opened just enough for me to see the girl’s face on the other side of the chain. She had taken off her makeup, revealing an otherwise plain face, flawed by traces of acne. Another man would have understood the meaning, but my agitation was such that my brain could not compute the data.

“Why did you leave me?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea. You should go.”

“I don’t understand.”

Her face was as rigid as a blind man’s. “Something’s come up. I’m sorry.”

How could this be the same girl who had laid siege to me in the bar? Was this some kind of game? I wanted to blow the chain off its anchors and burst through the door. Maybe that was what she wanted me to do. She sort of seemed the type.

“It’s late. I shouldn’t have left you out there, but I’m going to shut the door now.”

“Please, just let me warm up for a minute. I promise I’ll go after that.”

“I’m sorry, Tim. I had a good time. Maybe we can do it again sometime. But I really have to go.”

I’ll admit it: part of my mind was computing the strength of the chain that held the door. “You don’t trust me, is that the reason?”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just—” She didn’t finish.

“I swear I’ll behave. Whatever you want.” I offered a sheepish smile. “The truth is, I’m still a little drunk. I really need to sober up.”

I could see the indecision in her face. My appeal was doing its work.

“Please,” I said. “It’s freezing out there.”

A moment passed; her face relaxed. “Just a few minutes, okay? I have to be up early.”

I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

She closed the door, undid the chain, and opened it again. Disappointingly, the skirt and filmy top had been replaced by a robe and a shapeless flannel nightgown. She stepped aside to let me enter.

“I’ll put on some coffee.”

The apartment had a dingy look: a small living area with high-set windows facing the street, a galley kitchen with dishes teetering in the sink, a narrow hallway that led, presumably, to the bedroom. The couch, which faced an old tube-style television, was heaped with laundry. There were few books in sight, nothing on the walls except a couple of cheap museum posters of water lilies and ballerinas.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” she said, and waved at the sofa. “Just shove that stuff aside if you want.”

Nicole’s back was to me. She filled a pot at the tap and began to pour the water into a stained coffee machine. Something peculiar was happening to me. I can only describe it as a kind of astral projection. It was as if I were a character in a movie, observing myself from a distance. In this divided state, I watched myself approach her from behind. She was sifting ground beans into the machine. I was about to put my arms around her when she sensed my presence and spun toward me.