Greg Fay and I drove our bikes to Red Hook to watch the sun set in the shadows of the barges in the New York Harbor.
On the way home, someone cat-called me from a car. “I think that guy likes you,” Greg sing-songed from behind me.
“Reaaallly??” I sing-songed back.
“Yeah, and he spoke really good Spanish,” he said.
“It’s decided. We’re getting married,” I declared.
