Do you know what you’re talking about? He asked. All this coming from your mouth. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Sounds, not words. He spread marmalade on his wheat toast. Noise. That’s all you make. Noise. The cop took a sip of coffee.

You’re not listening. His partner stated. You don’t hear me. The fat police officer told him. You’re a narcissist. Toxic. This job has gotten to you. You should quit. Get a job at a mall. Sell shoes. Maybe dress suits to women. You’d be good at that. You speak their language. He leaned forward. His tie drowned in coffee.

Right. You are right. The detective said. Using words like some fag. Narcissist. Toxic. Next, you’re going to tell me my masculinity is suffocating you. Right? You are right.

Silence. Cars drove by on Eighth Avenue. Ambulances had sirens on. People marched from 32nd Street to 33rd while others marched the opposite direction.  Each one had to get some place. A meeting with a client. A store. Tourists checking out Madison Square Garden. Frightened, homeless teens walking around aimlessly. Looking for a buck. They were all looking for a buck.

More coffee? The waitress asked. The two nodded their heads. She poured coffee and waved a bill up in the air.

I got it. The fat man said. I’ll take care of it.

Thank you.