"Mind if I smoke?" she asked the back of his head, not waiting for an answer before pulling out the Marlboro Lights.
"It’s your lungs," he said amiably, glancing at the rear view.
"I guess that’s a yes," she said, lighting up. She pulled out her compact, and freshened her makeup as the cab stopped for a red light.
"You goin’ to work?" he asked her, staring at the rear view.
"Whatever," she said coldly, blocking his view, holding her hand in front of her face.
He laughed, but said nothing.
When he stopped for another red, she said: "you could’ve made that."
"What?"
"The light, you could’ve made it. Can’t you drive faster? I’m late enough as it is."
"Cool your jets. Wanna kill those pedestrians?"
She sighed. "Just hurry, alright?"
"Where you goin’? You got a meetin’ or somethin’?"
   She looked at his reflection in the rear view. The features weren’t delicate. Thick Roman nose; large but well-defined chin; wide-set eyes and arched brows saved him from ugliness. His hair, combed straight back, was so shiny it could have been black ice. The whole effect was rough; it was easy to picture him in a ring, jabbing. Probably never read a book in his life. Drank beer from the bottle. Passed out watching The Superbowl. Scratched his balls.
   "Why do you want to know?"
   "Just talkin’. I like talkin’ to people. Makes the time go by."
   She crossed her legs, folded her arms. Stared straight ahead, avoiding his gaze.
   "Whadisay?" he asked.
   "What do you mean?"
   "Ya clammed up. Look at your body language. Somethin’ happened. I offend you, or what?"
   Then the strangest thing happened. Her eyes filled with tears. This amazed him. She made a big show of looking for her cigarettes so she wouldn’t have to see him watching her. Which he was.
   He handed her a tissue. She shook her head, lit up.
   "Bad habit," he said casually.
   "I’ve got lots of them," she said, gazing out the window.
   "Oh, yeah? Like what?"
   "Take a look. Can’t you figure it out?"
   "Oh, yeah," he said carefully. "I like to eat, too."
   She made a face. His stomach was flat as a board.
   "My father always said, ‘more than a handful is a waste.’"
   "That’s really deep," she said. "Don’t make it worse."
   He laughed. "Aww, come on. I’m only kiddin’ witcha. You look okay to me."
   She smiled weakly.
   "Your lipstick is too dark. It looks like somone sucked the blood out of your face. But other than that, you’re a good lookin’ woman."
   She sighed. "Gee, thanks," she said dully. She licked at her lips.
   This made him laugh again. "I like big women. Always have."
   He saw her wince. Shit. I have a stupid fuckin’ mouth.
   "Are you going to have change for a twenty?" she asked.
   "My friends think I’m nuts," he confided, ignoring her question. "But I like my women with meat on ‘em."
   "Twenty?" she asked again, fidgeting.
   "It don’t matter what you got."
   "Excuse me?"
   "It don’t matter ‘cause I ain’t chargin’ ya. Fuggetaboudit."
   "I’m sorry...?"
   "What word didn’t you understand? No charge."
   "Why?"
   He thought about it. "I made you cry. I don’t know why, but I prob’ly said somethin’ wrong. You’re so pretty. I’d ask you out, but you’d probably get upset."
   "Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t make me cry," she said, starting to cry again.
   A long pause.
   Then she said: "I wouldn’t get upset."
   He grinned. "Get rid of the lipstick, and we‘ll talk."

   He wasn’t a complicated guy. Except for The Thing, his tastes, for the most part, were simple: sneakers, no socks. Jeans. Pizza. ESPN. Star Trek. Baseball. But The Thing drove him crazy. Nobody in his family, as far as he knew, had It, the crazed sexual excitement that only heavy women could give. He was so private about his longings that it surprised him to say it aloud---to a stranger in his cab, no less. Well, guess she wasn’t a stranger any more. Rissa. He liked the name. Nice woman, Big curves, everything jiggled. And oh, that fat ass of hers.  Oh man.
   He didn’t have control over The Thing. It controlled him. Had him by the balls, literally. His family had no idea, of course. As an adolescent, he was too devious for discovery; he left them a bogus trail of Playboys and Hustlers, so they wouldn’t go looking for a secret stash. He made sure they never found the precious few magazines that fell apart from endless handling; the tracings he made, carefully fleshing out Playboy models so they became his very own dreamgirls; the pubescent fantasies he scrawled on loose leaf paper; his own desperate, amateurish sketches of mountainous breasts with nipples the size of casabas. Switching the "before" and "after" pictures in the diet ads. The self-loathing. The fear of discovery. The frustration. God, it was murder. Nobody to talk to. No books to read, no friends to confide in. He wouldn’t have dared. Later on, the lies became more elaborate. The suffering, more complex. His sexual experiences were exciting at times, but it was more like an appetizer for him. The main course was taboo. And so he walked around starving. Until Theresa. He shuddered at her name, even now.
   He was seventeen. And always on fire. Hardened ripeness, like a fruit bursting its skin. Theresa. If she brushed him lightly just to get by, he could have lost control. She wasn’t pretty, not at all. But at seventeen, he couldn’t give a damn about her face. She was always squinting, her skin was pasty, and all of her efforts with her mousy brown hair were futile. Always disheveled, like she wore her clothes to bed. Her eyes were nice, though, when she let you see them. Big, green. He was more interested in the pendulous breasts that groaned against the too-tight, crisp white blouse. Her uniform skirt always pulled tightly against her thick hips, making the waist pleats stretch in a plaid tug-of-war. The skirt was much shorter in the back because her fat backside kept it lifted. This gave Tony his happiest moments until she gracelessly pulled it down, something he noticed she did at least a hundred times a day.
   He probably would have been content with fleshy fantasy if he had not been treated to a glimpse of her vulva. Like all the girls, Theresa’s pleated skirt was primly held together in front by an oversized safety pin. Since the skirt was too small, the wrapped-over part was skimpily narrow, and the slight spread of her legs was all that was needed for an invitation to heaven.
   One day he noticed her legs were apart. He could see the white cotton underwear that was slightly pulled aside. Tony’s mouth hung agape when he realized what he was seeing: curly black hair nestled against a little pink opening....and then it was gone.
   He groaned out loud. When he realized everyone in class was looking at him, he blushed. Throbbing, he left the classroom. Theresa, dully oblivious to what she had caused, kept taking her copious notes, watching the teacher expectantly.

   He wasted no time. Found out where she lived. Bought flowers and candy. An awful card with a little teddy bear holding a balloon. The balloon said: "let’s be friends." Ugh. He was aching, he was in torment.
   She answered the door, looking more confused than pleased. Tony held out his bribes and waxed poetic:       "Wanna do somethin’ with me tonight?"
   She stared at him. Her expression had not changed."You deaf?" asked Sir Galahad. "Wanna go out wit me?"
   She frowned. "Very funny."
   He hadn’t been prepared for a response like that.
   "Do I look like I’m jokin’? This shit ain’t cheap, babe."
   She looked down at his offerings, seeing them for the first time. She made no move to take them.
   "What’s the joke, Tony?"
   "No joke, Theresa. I just think you’re really....you know, nice."
   She stared at him, squinting her eyes behind her glasses.
   "Jesus, Theresa. What I gotta do? But listen, there is a catch."
   "I knew it!"
   "You don’t know nuthin.’ I just don’t want anybody knowin’ about this. I’m afraid it’ll get back to Lorraine, that’s all."
   "Yeah, right."
   "Aren’t I datin’ her, Theresa? Am I makin’ that up?" He was losing patience. His arms were getting sore from holding out his gifts to her, so he thrust them in her hands. She took them. Good sign.
   She seemed to consider. "Where would we go?"
   "Anywhere. Everywhere. Wherever you wanna go, we’ll go. Okay?"
   She didn’t answer right away, and Tony held his breath.
   "Can you take me out to eat?" she asked. She suddenly sounded like a little girl. He was afraid she might add ‘Daddy.’
   He exhaled. "I know a place," he said, relieved. "Wanna get ready?"

   He waited outside her house, declining an invitation from her mother to come inside. He couldn’t do that. He didn’t want her mother to see through him or, even worse, like him. So he waited, shifting his weight back and forth, back and forth, amazed and disgusted at the chaos his body was wreaking.
   She had changed out of her Catholic school uniform; she looked softer, somehow. Aww, shit. She was wearing one of his flowers in her hair. Why the fuck did she have to do that? He angrily slammed the steering wheel with his hand. She looked alarmed, but said nothing.
   They drove a while in silence. He stared straight ahead, glaring at the road in front of him as if it held a barrier to crash through. She sat quietly beside him as he pushed the car to seventy-five, then eighty; he watched her push her body against the passenger door so their knees couldn’t touch. He noticed she kept feeling the flower in her hair, running her fingers along the petals; her pleasure shamed him, made him want to yank it off.
   Suddenly he slowed, pulled off at an exit ramp, and then into a parking lot. She looked at his profile for the first time.
   "Where are we?"
   He didn’t answer. He gestured for her to open the door: "Come on."
   She seemed dazed, didn’t move.
   "Ya deaf? Come on!" He touched her arm. She jerked as if a bolt of electricity went through her, and this made her blush. He was already at the door to the restaurant, and went inside without a backward look.
   It was a bar, mostly, with a few small tables off the to side in case the patrons wanted to interrupt their drinking with an occasional nutrient. Tony asked a sad-looking waitress for a menu and two Buds.
   When she returned with them, Tony took one and shoved one at Theresa.
   "I don’t drink beer," Theresa said.
   "It’s good. You drink it."
   Theresa looked at the waitress, who only shrugged, bored.
   "And two linguini with white clam. Very wet, or I don’t want it. And bring me some bread."
   Theresa watched as his eyes darted all over the room, searching for hidden enemies, lighting now on the stained checkered tablecloths, now on the tired woman who shuffled to the kitchen for his order; the cigarette burns in the lineoleum; the flowers more dead than alive on the tables. When he seemed satisfied that there was no-one lurking under the tables or behind the bar, he looked at her for the first time.
   She took a deep breath and held it, waiting for him to speak.
   "Get that flower out of your hair, will ya?"

   He rushed her through the silent meal, although she didn’t eat much. This amused him. Because she was fat, he assumed she’d plough through the food without coming up for air. Probably shy, he thought. She surprised him, however, by drinking two beers. This strangely gave him pleasure; he’d given her her first beer, and she’d liked it. Let’s see what else she likes.
   He quickly paid the tab and hustled her to the car. As he turned the ignition, she broke the silence that had become oddly comfortable.
   "Why did you ask me out?"
   "I thought I already told you that."
   "No, not really."
   He pulled the car out of the lot, not answering. He gave her an impatient look. The question seemed to slide off her face and she sighed, stared out the window, resigned to his quiet.
   The car made a few turns and came to a stop. He shut off the ignition and looked at her. She closed her eyes tightly, as if anticipating a slap. Then she felt his lips, hard and unyielding, on hers, and it literally took her breath away. She responded eagerly, flinging her arms around his neck, a little surprised cry escaping from her throat.
   Her whimper made him crazy. He fumbled quickly at the buttons of her blouse, cursing his big fingers, amazed when she cupped his hands over his, helping him. He hadn’t expected this. Oh, God. This had never happened to him before; he thought all girls refused at first.
   He looked at her with new admiration. "You want me to touch you?"
   She nodded, head down. She removed her blouse quickly, then her bra, sighing with pleasure when her breasts came swinging loose from their Playtex prison, plump and pink, expanding as if nothing could ever again contain them. She watched him with an oddly prayerful expression as he lifted her breasts with his hands, respectful and awed, and brought a nipple to his mouth with all the solemnity of a sacrament. When he gently parted her legs with his hands, he moved his head close to the glistening pink, inhaling the dark, wet smell of her. He had never wanted to kiss a woman there before, but now he ached to taste her, inhale her, bury his face in her.
   Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, he wanted to tell her some things. To describe this new hunger she woke in him. To tell her how happy he was. But all he said was, "you taste like rain."

   He didn’t want to remember any more. Old news. History. So he’d been an asshole. So what? All teenagers were assholes. It’s part of the package. He’d think about something else. He flipped on the radio. Rebel Rebel. He’d always loved Bowie, even though he was a fag. He sang along, tapping his fingers, cursing the traffic in Italian. He took a deep breath. He could still smell that woman’s perfume. Marone, she smelled good. He’d see her tonight.
   Sixth Avenue was hell---fuggetaboudit. He kept getting stuck in the middle of the intersection when the light changed. That sucked. Not only do people curse you out, but you can get a ticket. Gridlock, they called it. Where the fuck they get these names from? When he got stuck again on fifty-sixth, he drove up on the sidewalk. People took off in all directions. A few teenagers laughed, slapped each others’ palms, told him he had cojones. He thought: I must look like a madman. That’s okay. Get the fuck out of my way.
   It didn’t work. Theresa and high school would not get the fuck out of his way. It was like living through it again, hearing it in Dolby Surround-Sound, seeing it in Disney-fucking-technicolor. Why now? He hadn’t thought about Theresa in a long time. Why now, driving around Manhattan, at least fifteen fuckin’ years later? He stopped fighting it. He let the memories come.

   Theresa. Of course he had to avoid her. It was cruel, but necessary. He would, he knew, want her again, but until they were alone he would not, could not speak to her. Even to say ‘hello’ in the hallway would cause suspicion. She was one of those girls who was casually ignored, an unlovely bit of scenery; poor, fat Theresa, like the others who had been appraised and found wanting, was forever relegated to the back of the classroom with the rest of the misfits. There they would sit, avoiding unfriendly eyes, a skill they had down to a science. For her, being noticed was dangerous and to be avoided at all costs; the simple act of bending to pick up a dropped pen could prompt a wave of ugly comments about the size of her ass. She learned to leave the pen where it was---it wasn’t worth the pain.
   When she wasn’t being vigorously ignored, they would taunt her about her weight, and he’d be a silent witness. He didn’t approve of it, didn’t like watching it, but that was the way it was. That his friends laughed at what fed his darkest fantasies was an irony not lost on him. But keeping It a secret was the most important thing. To acknowledge her was out of the question. The caste system among teenagers was cruelly rigid, and the circles in which Tony traveled would never forgive so grand a lapse. She wasn’t stupid, she’d understand his position. And if she didn’t, fuck it. Who was she to give him a hard time? But then he remembered how she looked with her eyes closed, holding her breasts out to him. He softened. He would be kind to her when they met again, he decided. He would take her any place she wanted. He might even hold her hand in public. She’d like that.
   Oh, but wasn’t she a champ! On the way to math class, he passed her in the hall and she barely looked his way. She had the right idea. Fuck, she was good. She walked right by him like he was a stick of furniture. Impressive. How’d she get so good at this "I-don’t-know-you" stuff? Had she ever had to do this before, with another guy? Nah. No way. Not Theresa. Not his Theresa. He looked at the back of her, the quivering ass, smiling, shaking his head. Maybe he could sneak some time alone with her before his next class. Nah, too risky. Somebody might see. But just to touch her again...he felt himself stiffen. The scent of her was still on his fingers. He almost didn’t hear the voice behind him.
   "Hey! The Big T musta been smokin’ some vicious dope." Laughter.
   Tony swung around. Some guys he hung out with once in a while, Eddie and Salvy. The other two he didn’t know."Wha?"
   "I wouldn’t dip my stick there, Big T," Eddie said. "Not even with Tommy’s dick and Salvy pushin’!" They all laughed again, smacking palms.
   Tony felt a smile freeze on his face. Dry-ice shivers popped all over his back. He knew what was coming.     "What you talkin’ about, man?"
   "Saint Thereeeesa, Big T. We know you did ‘er. I can’t fuckin’ believe it, man. That big ugly cunt. I told ‘em, ‘no way, no way.’ You fucking blind, or what? But you was seen wit’ ‘er, man. You was seen. You’re snagged, you crazy fuck." They hooted, started talking all at once.
   "Ya think Tony got stuck between the cheeks of her ass?"
   "‘Oooh, Tony, touch my pussy---when you can find it!’"
   "Roll ‘er in some flour and look for the wet spot."
   "She suck ya good, Tony? She suck ya good?"
   Tony stared at them, smiled slightly. "She was great," he said finally, making them whoop with delight. He heard himself say: "Ask her to do you. Tell her I sent ‘ya. She wouldn’t mind doin’ me a favor. Go ask her, I’m serious."
   This sent them into yowls of laughter. Eddie clapped Tony on the back. "You crazy motherfucker. Leave it to Big T! Think she’s free tonight?"
   "Fuck you, Eddie," Tony said. "How can she suck your crank with Salvy pushin’?"
   "Me first with that fat fuck," Tony heard Salvy say to Eddie as they walked down the hall. "You guys awready got fuckin’ girlfriends."

   Fuggetaboudit. It was a long time ago. He knew how badly he’d hurt her. He remembered the letter she’d written; he was even pretty sure he still had it somewhere. That fuckin’ letter, painstakingly scripted in purple ink, smeared with her tears. No more, no more.

   His shift was over. Time to go home. He showered, changed. Then he called the woman he had met earlier. Lady Lipstick---that’s how he’d come to think of her. Yes, she’d love to have dinner with him. He kidded her about the dark lipstick. In a soft voice, she told him that she’d wear nothing on her lips---if that’s what pleased him. That’s when he decided on Ponte’s, a famous Italian restaurant on the West Side. The view of the Hudson River would knock her socks off. The food was excellent, and the strolling guitarist was a nice touch.
   She was waiting in front of her building when he pulled up.
   Jesus Christ, she’s pretty. There was so much to take in: the sexy black hat, raked just slightly at an angle across her brow; the greenish-blue eyes peeking out at him from under the rim; the jutting, creamy breasts straining against the black velvet sweetheart neck; the scent of her filling the car; her big thigh jiggling, touching his as he drove. He remembered the lipstick, and ran a thumb back and forth across her lips.
   "No lipstick," she told him.
   She let him rub her mouth with his thumb, then his forefinger. This excited him and he put his finger in her mouth and she sucked it, first one then three, if this was the most natural thing in the world, this is exactly what she had expected to do. He watched her close her eyes, sucking his fingers, a slight smile on her face, thigh bumping against his as he drove. This turned him on so much he had to turn away from her. It was either that or take a few pedestrians down.
   Another reason he loved Ponte’s was the stairs: he watched her big ass move as she made her way up to the next landing. She knew he was watching her, turned around and gave him a catlike grin. Jesus Christ. He could have taken her right there, on the red velvet steps.
   At dinner, he felt like a kid again, a goofy teenager, stiff in his pants, hiding it with the linen table napkin.
   After they ate, he said, "come see the view." He took her drink from her hand, leading her to the window by gently touching her shoulder.
   They both looked down at the Hudson, a heavy rain making the lights dance on the black river.
   "It’s raining," he said, squeezing her shoulder.
   "Yes," she said.
   "I used to drink the raindrops when I was a boy," he said. "They always tasted so fresh, so clean."
   "Yes," she said. "It’s funny, the things you remember. A man I loved, well, a boy, really, told me I tasted like rain when he made love to me. I never forgot that. It was so....beautiful. It made me cry. It makes me cry now."
   He didn’t answer.
   "I loved him so, and I felt he loved me, too. But he was embarassed to be seen with me, you know, because of his friends."
   He looked at her, suddenly dizzy, but she was still staring at the window, face impassive.
   "Why was he...embarassed?"
"Don’t worry, Tony," she said in a low voice. I don’t think he is any more."