My girlfriend Jenny and I were standing on a subway platform in Harlem. She had flown in from Chicago and had just gotten off a bus from LaGuardia – I was coming home from work in Times Square.
We waited for the train, facing each other, holding hands, talking, kissing occasionally.
A police officer approached us.
I felt a flash of anxiety. Was she going to tell us that we were disturbing other commuters? Was she going to say something that knifed our tender reunion?
“Ladies,” she said. “You better invite me to the wedding.” She pointed to her badge. “Dawn Matthews,” she said. “21st precinct.” She grinned.