New resolution: no more snacks! Snacking is really not good, ruining your appetite for your meals and filling you up with bad stuff. So: no snacking. Unless it's good for you. Man, this is going to be hard. Someone make a bet with me about, si vous plait?

...

I waited at the bus stop, seated on the mottled concrete. He sat down, then. He had those veiny arms, with a tan that spoke of hard outdoor work or lazy vacations at St. Bart's. It was hard to crane my neck for the bus without him being in the way, so in typical New York fashion, I focused straight ahead, staring at the glass that rose into a tower in front of me instead of taking the horrifying chance of meeting eyes with a stranger. A few long moments passed. Then,

"This street, it's quiet," he said with a distinctly European accent. I nodded in acquiescence.

"Yes, the city's usually so loud. So where are you from?" I asked, brazen in the dream-like quality of the entire encounter. He hesitated, then answered with his eyes fixed on a point beyond me.

"Paris." I murmured a noncommital 'ah.' "Then before that, Denmark." I breathed a laugh.

"So where are you from originally, then?" I asked, slightly teasing.

"My mother's Danish and my father's Iranian-French," he replied. There was something restrained, shifty, about him. It felt as though he was testing the waters with each reply, tailoring the next response to suit me, to suit him.

"That's cool. So do you go to the dental school?" I gestured towards the glass behemoth facing us across the street.

"Dental school? That's a dental school? Are you a dentist?" he asked, words surprised but expression not, in the European manner.

"No, no. I work there in tech support," I replied, then, seeing his semi-confused look, I clarified, "I work with computers. What do you do?"

"I'm staying with my sister and her husband over there," he said, gesturing vaguely to his left. I couldn't tell if he had deliberately misunderstood my question, or not. Being in the city mindset, I felt he had done the former rather than the latter. A silence descended then, after I had nodded my head. For several agonizing moments, I tried to look everywhere but at him, wishing with everything I had that the trolley would come and whisk me away.

"So what is everyone doing here?" he asked. By then, several others had settled near us, a miniature version of city high school where the youths lean sullenly against chain link fences after the ending bell to wait for transport.

"Oh, we're all waiting for the trolley," I replied, relieved that the heavy silence had dissolved. He nodded.

"Does it go everywhere?" he asked.

"No, just to the NYU dorms," I replied, with a note of regret for him.

"My sister goes to NYU," he said. Again, the non sequitur didn't bother me.

"What's she studying?" I asked. He looked away, amber brown eyes clear in the sunlight.

"Something that takes many years, I don't know," he said slowly. I laughed nervously, thinking, you don't know what your sister is studying? With every passing moment, I felt myself detaching more and more, certain there was mischief afoot. "The NYU dorms, can non-NYU people stay there?"

"Yeah, but only during the summer," I replied.

"Is it expensive?"

"Well, if you get a non air-conditioned double, it'd be about $100. Oh, and you'd have to get a meal plan, so that adds up to about $187," I said.

"But you have to eat anyway, right?" he asked. I was surprised he had caught my feelings toward the meal plan so easily.

"I suppose so," I said, smiling.

"Where can I apply for housing?" he asked.

"Online," I said, then at his slight grimace, added, "Well, if you have a computer, that is."

"I am not good at online," he said, frowning, rubbing his face. His fingernails were dirty. His reluctance about the internet only intensified my suspicions of him--different, increasingly negative ideas flashed through my mind. He was a homeless hobo without a computer, looking for a girl to be his sugar mama. Or a drugged-up addict searching for a quick fix. I didn't know what to think.

"Well, you could also go to the NYU campus and ask for information," I said, my Midwestern drive to help and be nice to those in front of me pushing me.

"Where's that?"

"Washington Square Park."

"Downtown?"

"Downtown. Around 8th Street. Just ask around," I said. "So what do you do?" I persisted, curiosity shoving aside detachment.

"I am doing a little work," he said. I was about to push him to tell me more, but at the sight of the trolley, gave it up. I wouldn't see him again.

"Oh, here's the trolley," I said, abrupt even to my own ears.

"Trolley, it's free?" he asked.

"Only for NYU people," I said with fake regret, secretly glad like the runner who catches sight of the finish line just as she tires. I stood, then, and the trolley stopped in front of me.

Before I stepped on, he shouted, "What's your name?"

"Christine," I tossed over my shoulder, knowing it didn't matter. I heard him repeat it to himself, quietly. I sat next to a woman, and didn't look out the window as the trolley rolled on, leaving the stranger behind.