When the Stars Come Out by Rob Byrnes

smile?”
    “That’s the one. Anyway, yesterday I saw him again. In a cab out-
    side the Whitney. And if that isn’t strange enough, I ran into him this afternoon near Radio City.”
    “So what’s his name?”
    “I . . . I don’t know. We haven’t really spoken. I just keep seeing him everywhere. And I’m afraid if I go to Bar 51, he’ll be there again, and, well . . .”
    “That’s a good thing, though. Right?”
    “Not really. I mean, there’s obviously something that keeps bring-
    ing us to the same place—fate, or something. And that part is good.
    But I don’t live here, and I won’t be here for long, so I can’t see any good that would come from pursuing it. And I’m afraid that if I go to the bar tonight and he’s there, and something happens, well . . .
    I’m afraid that—”
    “Yes,” she said, with determination. “You’re afraid.”
    “No! I’m not afraid, I’m just . . .”
    “You said it twice. ‘I’m afraid’; ‘I’m afraid.’ So you’re afraid of meeting this man?”
    “No, I just meant that the consequences, well . . .”
    “Damn the consequences,” she said. “Maybe you’re fated to
    meet, and maybe you’re not. But if you’re going to stand here and
    tell me that you can’t meet someone because some day you’ll have
    to return to your lonely existence, well, that’s just bullshit, Noah.”
    Which is how they ended up at Bar 51.
    If Noah felt it was now no longer a surprise to see the stranger in random places, it seemed to him completely predictable that he
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    would be at Bar 51 . . . and, as he had feared—and he had, indeed, feared —only moments after he and Tricia said hello to the Four Stooges, Noah saw him standing at the far end of the bar, holding a Corona.
    “Is he here?” Tricia asked, looking over the crowd but not recog-
    nizing him.
    Noah pointed him out.
    “Go talk to him.”
    “Can we get a drink first?”
    Tricia asked him to get her a glass of wine, and Noah squeezed
    into an almost-open spot at the bar, where he tried to flag down the bartender. It took a few minutes, but finally he was able to order.
    “Two glasses of chardonnay.”
    “And a Corona,” Tricia yelled out over his shoulder. Noah didn’t
    have to look—he had seen the bottle in the stranger’s hand when
    they walked into the bar—but he did anyway and there, standing
    behind him, were Tricia and her new companion.
    “And a Corona,” he repeated under his breath, instantly mes-
    merized by the stranger’s shy smile.
    Seconds later, Noah was handing Tricia her glass of wine, and
    the stranger his beer, and then Tricia was off to bum cigarettes
    from the Stooges.
    And Noah was alone with this object of his . . . affection? Lust?
    Intrigue? He wasn’t sure. He was only certain that whatever fate
    had in store for him, he was alone with it.
    “I keep seeing you,” said Noah, by way of introduction.
    “I know.” The stranger smiled. “Madison Avenue . . . Sixth . . .”
    “Where did you disappear to this afternoon?”
    “I had to take care of some things.” The stranger smiled again
    and said, “You know, I almost crossed over to your side of the street when I saw you.”
    “Me, too!” said Noah, enthusiastically.
    “I saw you here the other night, right?” He pointed out to the
    smoking porch, where Tricia was already highly animated through
    the large front windows. “With her?”
    Noah nodded. “Tricia. My father’s wife.”
    “Well . . .” The stranger’s smile suddenly faded. “It’s kind of wild that we keep running into each other.”
    “Uh . . . yeah.” Noah struggled for conversation. “It’s wild.”
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    R o b B y r n e s
    He tried to read the stranger’s faded smile. Was he shy, or unin-
    terested? For his part, Noah knew he was interested; he just didn’t know if he could push himself to express that interest. Yes, he’d get grief from Tricia, but—really—what good could come of