Until I Saw Your Smile

By J. J. Murray

Featured as an Editor’s Pick for Summer Must Reads 2015 in Ebony magazine!

At Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee, you’ll find Brooklyn’s best house blend and the freshest homemade pastries. It’s more than a business to owner Angela Smith. It’s her home and her refuge—one she stands to lose thanks to her gouging landlord. Then a new regular offers to cover her rent increase if Angela lets him meet his clients there. If Matthew McConnell weren’t such a persuasive lawyer—and so sweet, funny, and sexy—she wouldn’t dream of letting him in.

Since he left a high-paying, soul-sucking legal firm to go solo, Matthew has been striking out, professionally and personally. The best part of his love life is regaling Angela with date-from-hell stories over steaming, fragrant coffee. Behind her captivating smile is a smart, sensual woman he’d love to get close to. And when a secret from her past is suddenly exposed, he gets a chance to prove he’s the man she needs, in every way that matters…

“An endearing journey of heartfelt love…Unusual characters will inspire readers of this emotional yet joyful story.” --Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9780758277305

J. J. Murray

J. J. MURRAY is the author of thirteen multicultural romantic comedies. He lives, dreams, and writes in Roanoke, Virginia, with his stunning wife, two brilliant sons, and Lovie the Wonder Mutt. Readers can connect with him at JohnJeffreyMurray.com.

Book preview

Amy

Chapter 1

Matthew Mark McConnell, self-employed Internet lawyer, opened the door of his apartment above Mittman’s Pharmacy and Jesse’s Plastic Covers at South 3rd and Havemeyer Street in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, and he didn’t smell baleadas cooking, nor did he get his usual spicy kiss from his girlfriend, Joy.

He stepped inside and sniffed the air. Oranges? I haven’t had an orange in months. I wonder where Joy found them.

Joy, did you get us some oranges? Where’d you find them? Santos? Alegria? I was just at Melo’s and didn’t see any. He had seen grapefruits in abundance but only because someone had decided February should be National Grapefruit Month. The shortest month for a sour fruit.

He opened the closet door and hung up his dripping trench coat, its lining loose and flapping. He then set his laptop case and a plastic bag containing microwave popcorn on the pockmarked walnut kitchen table.

I got the popcorn, he said in the direction of the apartment’s only bedroom. Are we eating out tonight?

He heard the usual buzzing of the refrigerator, the drip at the sink, the steady hum of traffic on 3rd Street, the hiss of the radiator in the living room, and the ticking of the clock above the stove.

Perhaps Joy is hiding under the covers, he thought. So my sweet Honduran princesita wants to cook in bed tonight instead. This week is going to end in style.

"Tu eres muy sexy, he called out. Tengo ganas."

And that was almost the extent of Matthew’s grasp of Spanish. Joy was very sexy, and he was horny. What else is necessary to know on a Friday night?

Before he joined his belleza chiquita warming up in the bedroom, a flash of pale yellow paper caught his eye. Affixed to the refrigerator, just below the World’s No. 1 Teacher magnet Joy’s elementary students had made for her, was a Post-it:

Off to the DR with Carlo.

Key on nightstand.

Adios, anciano!

PS: Sorry!

Matthew blinked at the Post-it.

He reread the Post-it.

He continued to blink.

He looked at the kitchen counter, an empty space crawling with dust and bread crumbs. Where’s the microwave? Did it die already? It serves me right for buying a used microwave with a thirty-day warranty—

He read the Post-it a third time.

Anciano? I’m not an old man. I’m not ancient. Thirty-five isn’t old. Joy says it doesn’t matter that I am ten years older than she is. She says she likes a man with a little extra mileage on him. And she says she’s sorry? Doubtful. I have never heard her say, I’m sorry. I have never heard either of us say I love you either, but we’re working on that. And what’s with the smiley face? Who puts a smiley face—

He closed his eyes.

Who puts a smiley face on a breakup Post-it?

Matthew briefly wondered if the DR was a new restaurant somewhere in somewhat trendy, hip Williamsburg.

Only briefly did he wonder this. He knew his hometown and all its eateries like the back of his now shaking hand.

He tried valiantly to take stock of his situation.

Joy is off to the Dominican Republic with Carlo.

Joy has left me for Carlo while I sat at the Atlas Café all day sponging off their free Wi-Fi and electricity, trying to solicit clients. Okay, okay. I only played marathon games of Internet spades, ate pear chocolate turnovers, and drank sour coffee.

Joy, my girlfriend for a year and my giggly, sexy roommate for the last six months, has left me . . . for Carlo.

Who’s Carlo?

Oh, right. The short, hairy guy I met at Tabaré a few weeks ago. "You just have to meet him, Joy had said. Carlo is so amazing. He has so many stories to tell about his beautiful country."

Matthew reread the Post-it.

It still ended with the smiley face.

An exchange teacher. Carlo di Ponti or di Pointy or something like that. Joy has run off with an exchange teacher. He’s only here for a few months with his students from the Dominican Republic. I love your country, Carlo said to me. It has so many possibilities. I suppose that’s Dominican code for "I’m taking your smoking hot girlfriend back to my country, ha ha, you stupid anciano!"

An exchange teacher. Who runs off with an exchange teacher? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Isn’t Carlo supposed to get Joy to marry him here so he can get his green card and stay here? What color card will Joy get down there?

Out of habit and not knowing what to do with the breakup Post-it now crumpling in his hand, he opened the refrigerator door and looked inside.

It was empty.

Except for a smattering of spills and congealed, red blobs clinging to the wire metal shelves, it was completely empty.

Joy took the leftovers.

She took the leftover tortillas. She took the bean soup and the fish soup. She took the yogurt, celery, cheese, butter, bacon, bottled water, and all the condiments, too.

What kind of disturbed, psychotic woman takes a man’s condiments? What, are they traveling on the slow boat to the Dominican Republic and they’re not sure where their next meal will come from?

No, Carlo and his students originally flew into JFK.

How are they going to get all that onto the plane?

He opened the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator, the one usually reserved for alcohol. She took the bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee, the champagne we had been saving for a special occasion. I guess today was a special occasion for her.

He looked at the top of the refrigerator and saw more emptiness. She took the box of stale Ritz crackers and the last bag of Bachman’s pretzels. She and Carlo must be flying coach. I hope those pretzels are so salty she has to drink Caribbean water and gets the runs while she’s in the air! Maybe the blue water in the plane’s bathroom will splash up on her—

He checked the freezer compartment. All the Lean Cuisines and even the last Trader Joe’s Chicken Tandoori and Celentano lasagna were gone, too.

Joy left one ice cube tray containing half of one crusty, frostbitten cube of ice.

He left the kitchen for the bedroom and looked at his bed, now a collection of rumpled bed sheets, the comforter thrown back to the headboard, the pillows mounded suggestively in the middle.

I made the bed this morning, didn’t I? I always make the bed. Joy says she can’t reach all the way across and that it hurts her shoulders to pull up the comforter. And why do I smell more oranges? Carlo smelled like orange juice at Tabaré, but I thought it was because of the screwdriver he was drinking. This room smells like eau de exchange teacher. And Joy. She bathed in vanilla, always vanilla. Candles, lotion, perfume. The combination is toxic.

He cracked a window and considered tossing the Post-it into the night. He shoved it into his pocket instead before gathering the pillows and bedding carefully, rolling it all off the bed and onto the floor.

Burn them or wash them? Wash them, then burn them? Joy picked out the comforter and the oversized pillows, but I paid for them. Yeah, I’m paying for it, all right. Michael warned me not to date a younger woman. He warned me not to hook up with a woman who smiled at me while cursing in a language I didn’t completely understand. Joy taught me a great deal of Spanish, but I have enough trouble with English. She’ll cost you in the end, my friend, Michael had said. There’s something about her eyes. She has crazy eyes, Matthew. They don’t ever quite focus. Never trust a woman with crazy, unfocused eyes.

I hate when Michael’s right, but then again, Michael’s been right about nearly everything since we skated through NYU law and survived six years together at Schwartz, Yevgeny, and Ginsberg, where he’s still cranking out billable hours and suing the world. Michael owns a walk-in Sub-Zero refrigerator while I have a completely empty, blood-red, 1950s Philco V-handle refrigerator.

And a package of microwave popcorn.

With no microwave to cook it in.

He stared at the bedroom floor, the hardwood scuffed and bruised, and for the first time he missed Joy’s ratty slippers, slippers he tripped over nearly every night getting into and out of bed.

I can’t use this bedding again unless I get it cleaned at Giant Laundry Mat, but they might lose it all. They already lost four of my shirts. Call three-one-one, the counter guy said. Having to call a number to report shirts missing—what is this country coming to?

Matthew sighed.

Then I must burn it all. Where do you burn your soiled bedding without calling attention to yourself in Williamsburg? I could wait until the Knicks, Mets, Nets, or Jets win a championship and burn it out on South Third in the eventual victory riot, but then I’d probably be stuck with it all for a long time. I could throw it off the Williamsburg Bridge, but it would probably wash downstream to the Statue of Liberty, where the entire world would see my bedding on CNN as Homeland Security checked the pillows for bombs using one of those robots.

He tried to remember Joy’s last words to him that morning. Was it This isn’t working out, Matthew? Or I’m going to work out, Matthew? It might have been I’ll give you a workout when you get home.

He had been hoping for the last one. Joy was good at working him out.

He looked again at the mound of sheets, pillows, and comforter.

And, evidently, she was good at working out Carlo, too.

What a mess! This kind of thing only happens in bad French movies where I would be lighting up a cigarette, smiling some enigmatic smile while looking out the window, and opening a bottle of wine right about now. I could be throwing things—like the pillows—but I don’t want to touch them ever again.

He sighed again.

Joy could have said, Matthew, I think we should see other people, that reasonably mature though trite and trusted way to break up with someone without saying the actual words. I didn’t see other people. I only saw Joy. I thought Joy was The One. I thought we were on the same page. I thought we were two hearts beating as one. I thought . . .

I thought wrong.

Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all.

We were together an entire year, the last six months here in this claustrophobic apartment, and I didn’t even look—

Okay, there was this waitress once who had a round, firm booty at Bar Celona, and Joy caught me staring and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening, but—

He looked again at the heap of bedding on the floor. So while I wasn’t seeing other people, Joy was on the prowl. And what do I see now as a result? I see soiled bedding crawling with Carlo’s and Joy’s DNA.

I also see my immediate future. I have the joy of reliving the last year of a relationship that I took seriously while my only bottle of champagne, the entire contents of my refrigerator, and a bag of pretzels flies off to the Dominican Republic!

He kicked the bedding into the hallway.

A short exchange teacher with chest hair, a thin moustache, and an accent. "I love how tall you are, mi macho Matthew, Joy had said. I love how smooth your face is, mi amorcito, she had said. I love your accent, mi cariño," she had said. Joy had even called Matthew quequito, her little cupcake, even though he was twice her size.

Hairy. Joy evidently liked hairy, which is ironic. She always told me to shave and "tidy up down there, por favor and ooh, there’s a cabello in the sink" and—

He didn’t see the key on the nightstand.

He really didn’t want to touch the nightstand.

He decided that if he did burn the bedding, he would add the nightstand to the fire.

Joy forgot to leave the key. Why waste a line telling me that on the Post-it then?

He dropped to his hands and knees and looked under the bed.

He found the key.

He also found a pair of Victoria’s Secret leopard-print ruffled panties he had bought Joy for Christmas.

That she had been wearing this morning.

He warily tossed the panties into the hallway.

I growled at her this morning, didn’t I? I always growl at her when she wears those. Why else would I buy that particular print? You buy animal print underwear for your girlfriend so you can growl at her.

But if they’re here and she’s on an airplane . . .

I hope she’s cold.

No. They’re flying to the Caribbean.

He stood and leaned lightly on the edge of the bed before easing toward the dresser. I can’t sleep in my own bed until I get a new mattress. It’s a Kluft, and it’s only two years old! I suppose I could flip it—

No.

Spray it with Lysol? Use a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles? A container of Ajax? A mixture of all three?

What . . . a . . . mess!

He closed his eyes.

What would Jesus do?

He would probably do the laundry, flip the mattress, and forgive the panty-less Joy.

Jesus never had anything like this happen to Him.

No one I know has had this happen to him.

What do I do now?

Besides burning the laundry.

Do I call her? She wouldn’t answer.

Do I call Michael? No. He’ll laugh at me and tell me, I told you so.

Do I get back on the horse? Do I put myself back into circulation? I’m sure I’d get some sympathy tonight. She took my microwave! She took the tortillas! She even took all my condiments! Can you believe that? My condiments! All my leftover ketchup packets are gone on an airplane to the Dominican Republic!

He went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and washed his hands. He turned to dry them.

Where’s the—

He braced himself on the sink, gripping its cold white edges as water dripped off his chin.

She took all the towels and left me a thin, almost see-through white washcloth. Don’t they have towels in the Dominican Republic? I’m sure they do. Those towels weren’t that special, and they weren’t even a matched set!

Who takes the freaking towels after a breakup?

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, seeing familiar lines sneaking away from his eyes and creasing his forehead, his brown hair still thick though beginning to recede. You’re not getting any younger. In fact, at this moment, you look older than thirty-five. Maybe you are an anciano. Joy aged you. She’s still aging you. You are older.

But not wiser.

Matthew thought he was a good judge of character. He thought he knew Joy inside and out. He thought he had a lasting relationship with Joy. He thought that all dedicated teachers at P.S. 319 stayed in their classrooms until well after midnight to work on their lesson plans and grade papers, even on Saturdays and Sundays.

He also wondered how he could possibly dry himself without the benefit of a towel.

As these random thoughts collided in his head, he abruptly remembered what Joy had actually said this morning: This isn’t working out, Matthew. Where’s my passport?

Where’s my passport?—the global village’s ultimate breakup line. It’s not a bad line as lines go. The next time I break up with someone, I’ll say, I’ll just get my passport and be off then.

And to think that I told her where she could find her passport this morning before she left for school.

And for the Dominican Republic.

With Carlo, his orange scent, and his chest hair.

He returned to the refrigerator, as if looking inside would magically make leftover baleadas and his condiments reappear.

They didn’t reappear.

The red blobs hadn’t moved. They even seemed to glisten more brightly.

Despite his anguish and tangled thoughts, Matthew had a sudden lucid moment. How could Joy even afford the plane ticket? She barely paid one-third of our bills. Luckily, we had just paid all the bills . . . this . . . month . . .

He dropped his chin to his chest, whispering, "I will pay the rent this month, mi quequito. Do not worry about a thing. You give me the money, and I will take care of it."

Joy has been planning her escape from me for a while, maybe even from the moment she saw Carlo step off the plane.

He checked his old-fashioned answering machine on the kitchen counter and saw two messages. One was from PS 319: Miss Rios, you do not have any sick days left, and if you don’t come tomorrow, you will be out of a job. The other was from Matt’s landlord: You’re late with your rent . . .

Joy didn’t pay the rent.

That’s how she bought her ticket.

And then some.

It can’t possibly cost eighteen hundred dollars for a one-way plane ticket to the Dominican Republic. She probably had to buy a cooler for all the food. I’ll bet she had to ship the microwave, too. She probably stuffed the bathroom towels inside to keep the glass carousel tray from breaking. That’s what I would have done.

He wondered how much he would have to dip into his IRA again to restock his refrigerator, get a new microwave and towels, and pay his rent.

And the ten percent late fee.

He wondered if there were women in the world who were single, sane, and wouldn’t run off on him to the Caribbean bare-assed, packing towels, and carrying salty snacks, condiments, and a bottle of champagne.

He also wondered if he should go ahead and defrost the refrigerator since it was already empty.

It’ll make the job easier. That ancient thing is a beast to clean.

He shook these foolish thoughts from his head.

I don’t need to clean the refrigerator. A man does not defrost and clean out the refrigerator after his love has left him.

He sighed yet again.

If she ever were my love at all.

No more sweaty, caliente nights. No more long, black hair. No more tan-as-sand skin.

No more bean soup.

I need to find a woman I can have fun with, a woman I can laugh with, a woman who has the proverbial heart of gold, a woman who doesn’t smell like vanilla ice cream twenty-four hours a day, a woman who doesn’t talk to herself in Spanish all day. I need a woman who doesn’t listen to Garifuna music as the only music worth listening to, who only dances the punta while flapping—not snapping—her fingers, and who can’t be bothered at all whenever she watches Ugly Betty because her girl America Ferrera, of Honduran descent, is her favorite actress. I also need to find a woman who doesn’t say she’s at the school grading papers when she’s shacked up somewhere with an exchange teacher, who doesn’t take raiding the refrigerator to the extreme, and who would have the decency to leave at least one usable towel behind!

I also need to find a woman who doesn’t have an ironic name. Joy never truly brought me any. Pain would have been a more appropriate name for her. Pain Rios, middle name Full.

He slumped into his easy chair, certainly the oldest living easy chair in Brooklyn, its lumpy cushion comforting, its springs moaning, each coffee, pizza, and food-stain marking his progress from NYU undergrad to successful litigator to occasionally paid Internet lawyer. He had originally wanted a love seat, but even that wouldn’t fit into his tiny apartment.

Whom do I know who is fun and has a heart of gold?

No one.

Matthew decided to take it one little step at a time.

Whom do I know . . . who is fun?

No one.

Matthew posed a better question. Whom did I know once who I once thought was fun?

Monique.

He smiled.

Monique Delicia Freitas.

Yes.

He closed his eyes and saw the sculpted calves, thighs, and hips of one of the many paralegals carrying case files and rushing through Brooklyn Legal Services Corporation, his most recent real employer. Eventually he moved up her slender body to her face and found a smile and a pair of smoking-hot hazel eyes. As a matter of personal policy, Matthew didn’t date anyone at Brooklyn Legal, but if he had, it would have been Monique. She had done her best to entice him with her long brown hair, her huge hazel eyes, and her too-silky long legs she never hid even if it were ten degrees and snowing outside.

She told me her people were from Bushwick by way of Trinidad. She said she loved to dance, loved to party long into the night, and loved to let it all go. Any time you want to lose it with someone, Matty, just give me a call, she has said. She called me Matty McConaughey-hey because I have a, well, passing resemblance to the actor. If you squint. And if you don’t compare his picture too closely to me. I think I’m taller. He has a chin. I have more facial hair and a dimple on my left cheek. He has a hot Brazilian wife and two adorable children. I have Joy and Carlo’s DNA on my sheets. The real Matty McConaughey-hey has millions.

I have . . . to mine my IRA again.

Monique Delicia Freitas had been the Brooklyn Legal seductress, the paralegal every male lawyer and several female lawyers had wanted to work with.

She was always flirting with me, her eyelashes reaching out from her perpetually dark eyelids to tickle my—

I am seriously hungry. I can’t think straight. Eyelashes do not reach out and tickle anything.

He looked through rain-streaked windows into the Williamsburg night and saw La Espanola Meat Market, the graffiti memorial for Lil Rich, the now closed and graffiti-splattered New China Restaurant, and garbage bags piled as high as the parking meters casting their shadows over cracked and festering concrete.

Matthew was sure there was a metaphor out there somewhere on that chilly night before National Freedom Day.

Since he seemed to think more logically whenever he sat in his easy chair, he took complete stock of his present situation.

I’m a free Willyburg man now. I’m free. I am single again. I am unattached to anything but this easy chair, where I will be sleeping until I can remedy the bed and bedding situation. I’m thirty-five, relatively handsome, currently healthy, and occasionally self-employed. I have a profession considered honest and ethical by a whopping eighteen percent of the American public in a city that once sued itself a few years ago, and I have no towels.

I should call Monique so I can have some fun.

And I can get something to eat.

But would I do that so soon? Joy left today. I should be having a pity party fueled by copious amounts of alcohol. I should be calling Michael to come comfort me in my hour of need. I should be writing a malicious Internet blog about the dangers of dating Honduran schoolteachers who smell like vanilla. I should be removing that malevolent mound of DNA from my apartment.

Matthew knew that it was necessary in this human condition to be miserable every now and then because misery made the rare good parts of life seem even better. He knew he should simply stay in his comfortable easy chair and listen to his stomach rumble while worrying if he had enough paper towels in the apartment to dry his body if he took a shower.

But why would I want to put myself through all of that misery?

It’s Friday night, and I am a man in the prime of his life.

I live in a somewhat hip and trendy section of Brooklyn.

Joy has just dumped me in the most blisteringly bizarre way.

I need a blisteringly bizarre night to complete this absurdity.

I also need to see if Monique’s middle name is accurate. If my grasp of Spanish is correct, delicia means pleasure or delight.

I could use some pleasure.

And something to eat.

Chapter 2

But Matthew didn’t have Monique’s number.

He couldn’t call a Trini Bushwick babe without her phone number.

This is why someone invented WhitePages.com.

There were eleven online listings for a Freitas but only one Monique.

Will she even remember me? Let’s find out.

To save his dwindling cell phone minutes, he used the apartment phone.

Hello? said a sexy voice.

Hi, Monique. It’s Matthew McConnell.

Who?

The sexy voice sounds confused. What did she call me? "Matty McConnell. I used to work at Brooklyn Legal about three years ago."

Okay.

The sexy voice is still confused. You used to call me Matty McConaughey-hey.

Oh yeah, she said. I remember you. What’s up? You coming back?

No. I have my own practice now. Not really. My Web site isn’t even on the first five pages of Google or Bing if you type in cheap lawyer. I never should have named my Web site CheapBrooklyn Lawyer.com. Monique, are you doing anything tonight?

Are you asking me out?

Wow. Her sexy voice can get even sexier. I guess I am. If you’re not too busy.

I’m not busy at all, Matty.

I like the way she says my name. Hate the name. Like the way she purrs it. We could get some dinner and then . . . see what happens. Does that sound good?

Yeah.

Now where can I afford to take her? If I had a microwave, we’d share some popcorn. Can you meet me at Lovin’ Cup Café on North Sixth?

Oh, I love their tortilla soup, she said. When?

I’m hungry. I had no baleadas tonight. How soon can you get there?

In maybe an hour.

Great. See you soon.

Bye, Matty McConaughey-hey.

Matthew used the washcloth and some Dial soap to freshen up, drying his arms, chest, and face with several paper towels. He didn’t shave.

I shall be hairy from now on. Is the rough look still in? Williamsburg has plenty of Dominicans. I have to keep up with the competition.

He opened the bedroom closet expecting to see a row of empty hangers and the floor.

The hangers were full. Joy’s shoes covered the floor, crowding his shoes into a corner.

Joy didn’t take her clothes or her shoes. Why didn’t Joy take any clothes or her beloved shoes? What am I supposed to do with them? Is she going barefoot and naked?

He stepped over to the dresser and opened the drawers on her side. She took all her Burberry and Longchamp purses, her underwear, and her bras. I hope the Dominican Republic has an epic cold snap for the next few months.

He returned to the closet and thumbed through a row of skinny jeans. Why did I ever agree to wear these? They put my package in a bunch. He found a pair of baggy Levi’s and ironed them on the kitchen table. He rummaged through his dresser drawers until he found a heavy red wool sweater that only had a few pulls. Finally, he stared at his shoes.

It’s all about the shoes. It’s important that I wear something that says fun. The gray and white suede Adidas? No. My black Clark desert boots? Well . . . The black Dugo slip-ons are nice, but... The brown Cole Haan loafers and a. testoni Oxfords look a little too classy. My gray Alfie’s?

Why do I have so many shoes?

Then he saw a pair of black and white high-top Chucks. These will work. These say I have old-school style and I know how to have fun.

Donning an old, cracked, brown-leather bomber jacket, he left the apartment and stood among the garbage on Havemeyer—Greenpoint to the north, Bed-Stuy to the south, Bushwick to the east, the East River to the west.

Hello, Billyburg. You miss me? I’m back from my hibernation.

As he walked north and somewhat west, he smiled at his increasingly multicultural neighborhood. On a four-block chunk of Havemeyer, he could eat Vietnamese at Nha Toi, Mexican at Buffalo Cantina, Venezuelan at Arepa Arepa, Japanese at Sumo Teriyaki and Sushi, and Italian at Mezza Luna Pizzeria. His neighborhood was an eclectic mix of Hispanics, Italians, Puerto Ricans, Jews, Catholics, hipster artists, and Dominicans.

Carlo would have felt right at home here. He smiled. We might have even become friends.

Well, maybe not.

If Cornelius Vanderbilt could see his supposedly hip hometown now. Billyburg is hip, or at least that’s what real estate agents are telling people thanks to the plague of artists around here. You can add just about anything to Williamsburg, and it will never truly be hip. All the indie rock in the world won’t change this place for the better—or for the worse, for that matter. Williamsburg just is, take it or leave it, and some people can’t handle that.

People are always leaving Billyburg. Corning Glass Works went upstate and created its own city. Pfizer, once the largest producer of penicillin in the world, left Brooklyn first for Manhattan and now has plants in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

Oh, and Joy, originally from Staten Island, is off to the Dominican Republic.

And to think Williamsburg used to be wealthy. Times have sure changed.

He looked west toward the area bordering the East River, where ten percent of the entire nation’s wealthy people once built mansions and the plants that made them wealthy. The Domino Sugar, Esquire Shoe Polish, and Dutch Mustard warehouses were now overpriced factory condominiums ordinary Williamsburgers couldn’t afford. When the Williamsburg Bridge opened in 1903 and let Manhattan’s Lower East Side spill across the river, Williamsburg became the most densely populated city in the United States. It was so dense that when the novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn came out in 1943, Williamsburgers could pass around a single copy of that book hand-to-hand without moving more than a few steps in any direction.

And a few years ago, someone counted all 1,588 trees in Williamsburg. That must have been a fun job.

Matthew crossed Driggs Avenue, where supercop Frank Serpico was shot before Matthew was born. Yeah, this place can be dangerous. Some community development group called Billyburg the most toxic place to live in America. Red Auerbach, Joy Behar, Peter Criss, Zoe Kravitz, Barry Manilow, Henry Miller, Gene Simmons, and Barbra Streisand didn’t seem to mind.

He looked toward the bridge, shaking his head, wondering why Coming to America, supposedly set in Queens, was primarily filmed on South 5th Street in Williamsburg. It made me laugh to see Billyburg in that movie. Eddie Murphy is really trying to find his queen in Williamsburg, not Queens. Billyburg has always been cheaper, I guess. He rolled his eyes. We may be cheap, but we’re not easy. That CBS TV show 2 Broke Girls allegedly takes place here. Only two broke girls? CBS should have called it 170,000 Broke People Who Can’t Afford the Trendy Condo Upgrades. Try fitting that title in TV Guide. The only reason anyone in Williamsburg watches that show is to see how badly we’re misrepresented.

But I love Williamsburg. It’s what Manhattan used to look like before Manhattan went suburban.

When he saw Monique standing outside Lovin’ Cup Café, his heart skipped several beats. Monique was brown as coffee with cream and two sugars. She was tall, with a pierced navel shining out from under a loose purple top, silver bracelets and necklaces glinting, and a pair of the tightest jeans allowed by law almost painted on above a pair of stiletto heels. She had long straight black hair, thin black eyebrows, red lips, and a smile that filled her somewhat wide mouth. When Matthew considered Monique from head to toe, he immediately thought of sandy beaches and skimpy bikinis.

I have chosen my fun date wisely.

Monique skipped over to him, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. She clung to his arm and whispered a single word: Matty.

Matthew decided at that moment that he didn’t mind her calling him Matty at all.

Hi, he said.

Are you hungry, Matty?

He looked into her hazel eyes. I’m ravenous.

Monique batted her long eyelashes. Not as ravenous as I am. Let’s eat.

Lovin’ Cup Café had a long bar on one side, a collection of small tables with two chairs on the other. Matthew looked forward to their knees doing the cha-cha-cha in this crowded, intimate restaurant.

As soon as they sat looking over the menu, Monique’s calves rubbed against his.

Oh, she said, they have drunk brunch specials. Maybe we can come back tomorrow for brunch.

Matthew thought this was a wonderful idea. I haven’t been here in quite a while. What’s good?

Oh, Monique gushed. You have to try the tots.

Tots. A grown woman has just said tots to me. I think I will.

They ate Whole Lotta Lovin’ Tots. They savored tortilla soup. They split an order of Jalapeño Mac ‘n’ cheese.

And Monique drank.

A lot.

In less than half an hour, she knocked back two strawberry tequilas and a Parlourita, a spicy margarita with jalapeño tequila, Cointreau, and lime.

Twenty-five bucks for our food, twenty-five bucks so far for drinks. There’s something symmetrical about that.

Matthew soon discovered that although Monique had absolutely nothing to say as she ate, her body never stopped talking and whispering, Take me, Matty!

As Monique sipped her second Parlourita and Matthew his original Sam Adams, Matthew tried to get a conversation going. So, how’s Brooklyn Legal?

The same. You know.

I don’t know. That’s why I asked. Still busy?

Yeah.

Still crowded?

Yeah.

You obviously like working there if you’re still there.

Yeah.

How long have you been there now?

Monique groaned. Five years.

That was a sexy groan. I hope she groaned because of my question and not the effects of all that alcohol. What’s she weigh, one-twenty? She has an unusual tolerance for alcohol.

Is Mitch still there? Matthew asked.

Yeah.

I remember when I started and Mitch was doing some Greenpoint rezoning case and fighting developers, Matthew said. That was a mess, wasn’t it?

Monique blinked at him, frowning.

Did her eyes just roll? They did. But that’s past history.

Monique’s smile returned.

I talk, and she rolls her eyes. I stop talking, and she smiles. I will stop talking. The night is young. Do you want to go somewhere, maybe play some Brewskee-Ball at Full Circle Bar?

Monique blinked.

Not her idea of fun. "Or maybe we could catch a movie at the Nitehawk. I think they’re doing a series of Kung Fu flicks with live music. Or is it The Princess Bride with waffles and chicken? Either way, it will be really . . ." Monique is frowning. This is not good.

Monique sighed. I’d rather go to The Cove. She pointed out the window and across the street. I love to dance.

She has a body built for dancing. But at The Cove? That’s a mini aircraft hangar, a veritable firehouse that masquerades as a nightclub. It’s always so crowded, but if she wants to dance, we will dance. I want to see her dance.

It used to be called Hugs, Matthew said.

Yeah?

Monique can also turn yeah into a question. She has an incredible vocabulary. Let’s go dancing. Matthew stood and threw three twenties on the table. Ready?

Yeah.

They crossed 6th Street and passed people standing outside talking on cell phones and smoking. A strong whiff of urine washed over Matthew. They still haven’t solved their bathroom problems. If I have to, I will use the upstairs bathroom.

As they waited to be carded, Monique grabbed Matthew’s driver’s license from his hand. Do you have a car?

I would have picked you up if I had a car, right? Not anymore. I used to have a BMW when I worked for Schwartz, Yevgeny, and Ginsberg.

Who?

You can’t turn on the radio or TV without hearing their abrasive, in-your-face ads. The ‘Know Your Rights or You’re Nowhere!’ guys.

Monique blinked.

She has no idea. And she’s a paralegal? SYG is the scourge of the legal world from coast to coast. They’re the lawyers who sue the known and unknown world, the living and even the dead, the law firm with all those loud ads on TV.

Monique squinted then broke into a dazzling smile. "Oh, those guys. I didn’t know you used to work for them."

Past history.

Monique shrugged. Matty, if you don’t have a car, why do you still have a driver’s license?

It’s mainly for ID, so I can get into clubs like this.

Oh. She held the license in front of her nose. It says you’re a donor.

Yes, Matthew said. I’m leaving all my organs and my eyes to someone who needs them when I die.

But won’t you need them? Monique asked.

Wow. Is she trying to be funny ? Her eyes are serious. Yes. Now. I need them now.

So why are you a donor? she asked.

Oh boy. I need to go inside so I can stop talking and she can stop trying to think. Are you ready to get your dance on?

Monique shook her head. Get my dance on? You’re so old-fashioned.

I guess I am.

No one says that anymore, Matty, Monique said, handing her ID to the guy at the door.

Okay, how about . . . Keep it simple. "Are you ready to dance?"

Monique smiled. You know it.

Matthew handed his ID to the guy. Still no cover charge? The guy nodded and handed his card back.

Monique grasped Matthew’s arm, and in they went as DJ Full Time Fun was playing a reggae song that had the crowd bobbing and Matthew’s ears ringing.

One hundred twenty decibels at least. It’s as loud as the subway in here. I hope he plays some old-school hip-hop and R&B tonight. Those don’t seem as loud for some reason. And I hope I don’t have to use the unisex bathrooms. It’s extremely disconcerting to open your stall door and face a woman waiting for her turn.

There aren’t any places to sit! Matthew yelled.

What? Monique shouted. I’m thirsty!

Monique dragged him straight to the bar, where Matthew wasted thirteen bucks on a gin and tonic and a Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout, as green lights flashed and glowed, giving the place a post-Christmas and pre-St. Patrick’s Day feel.

Notorious B.I.G.’s Juicy thundered from the speakers, and Monique raced to the packed dance floor, leaving Matthew to bob and weave his way next to her.

I will not talk much here. Therefore, Monique will smile at me often. I’d have to put my tongue in her ear for