Who eats that? Meg asked. It’s disgusting. It looks disgusting.  Only old men eat that shit, she said. Ben laughed and wiped his mouth. Old Jewish men, she told him.

This is a beautiful thing, Ben said as he munched on a sour pickle.

Egg salad? Sour pickles? She asked, making a face. This is a beautiful thing, she mocked him. You’re starting to sound like an old Jew. Ben continued eating his sandwich. And on rye? Who he eats that?

Old jews, he laughed. And old crackheads.

I see them walk around town. With their funny hats and weird hair. They stare at me.

Everyone stares at you.

Right. But this is different. It’s like they look right through me. Seeing me as a sinner.

No one else looks at you that way?

Old women, they laughed. But no. Mostly, the Jews, she shrugged. Young boys look at me in fear.

Ha.

Yeah. Like they’re scared. 

Right. And then you take their lunch money.

Yeah. Something  like that. This one kid from Gramercy Park I blow gives me his allowance. 

What are you doing in Gramercy Park?

I work all over.

Bet you stick out like a sore thumb.

Something like that.

Yeah. Bet you do.

Think this will ever stop?

Yeah.

When?

When we’re dead.

Great. That’s a long time to suck cock.

I suppose.

The two sat there in Union Square, looking at all of humanity; bums, bitches, and business suits. Old women pushing carts home. Salty men walking their dogs. Track stars nodding out. Beautiful people coming home from the night. Leaving  lovers before they awake.

Finished, Ben slapped his hands together and wiped them on his jeans. Come on, he said. The day is beginning. Time for bed.