The bus driver finally pulled him off.  She beat the shit out of him, too," said Cassandra.  She  was half laughing, half crying as she sat on the edge of the deep red leather sofa in her apartment in the Colonnades.  Across from her, on a matching hassock, sat Rom, holding her hand and shaking his head.
     "Thank God you weren't hurt more badly," he said.  "I wish there were something I could do."
     Cassandra wiped her eyes with her free hand.  "Well, you could pour me some more of that wine."  Rom smiled, refilled her glass and scrutinized the small bruise on her chin.  She had refused medical attention after the incident, and after giving information to the two professional, sympathetic Transit Police officers, she'd taken a cab home.
     She'd spotted Rom pacing in the fluorescent-lit lobby and, much to his confusion, broke down in sobs when they finally met.  She quickly sketched the incident during the ride up in the elevator and apologized for being an hour late.  She blamed the traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel.
     She drank half of the second glass and seemed to regain her composure.  Rom couldn't take his eyes off her.  "I hate to drink and run," she said, "but I've got to take a shower.  I feel real dirty.  And my stockings are ruined."
     Rom stood up when she did.  "Of course.  Please, don't worry about me.  Should I come back?"
     "No. Please stay.  Did you eat?  Where are you staying?"
     "No, I didn't eat yet, and when I tell you where I'm staying you'll say I'm crazy."
     "One crazy guy a day is enough for me," she laughed.  She had grabbed her robe and was standing in the bathroom doorway.  "So where you staying?"
     "Remember the Giordano family on Fifth Street?"
     Cassandra squinted in recollection.  "Didn't they live in that apartment house up by Fourth Avenue?  Their father was the super?"
     "Good memory."  Rom poured himself more wine.
     "You're not living there!"
     "Hey, I rented a little apartment for a month.  I'll only be there two weeks.  I needed somewhere to write my life story."
     "But the neighborhood!"
     "Hey, it's our old neighborhood.  So it's a little seedy.  But it's got a great view of the park.  And the subway will lull me to sleep at night."
     Cassandra shook her head and closed the door.  Her voice came from behind it.  "Yup, you're crazy."
     After 20 minutes she emerged, robe-clad, in a cloud of good-smelling steam.  Rom was standing in front of the huge living room window, looking through the binoculars.   "Oh, I feel so much better," she said.  "That maniac smelled like shit.  Oops!  I shouldn't talk that way in front of a priest."
     "Please.  I've heard worse," he said.
     "By the way, where's the black suit and collar?"
     "I'm off for another couple weeks.  And besides, it has a chilling effect on some people."
     "Not on some women," she said, pouring herself more wine.  "We like a challenge."
     Rom felt himself blush.  "You've been watching too many made-for-TV movies "
     Cassandra eyed him.  "You grew up so handsome, Rom.  You're not bald, you're not fat, you still have a great smile.  I just can't believe you're a priest."
     "Well, I've got papers to prove it.  But hey, I've had a rich, full life."
     "I'm sure you have, but why a priest?  Mind if I smoke?  I really need one."
     She lit a Marlboro and Rom settled back into the sofa.  He briefly recounted his adventures and his "dip" in the cold waters of the Golden Gate.  "I don't know," he concluded.  "I guess things in life change you.  I didn't realize how much I wanted to live, despite all the crap I'd been through."
     "Yeah, but why a priest?  Why the Catholic Church?  I thought you didn't like all that stuff."
     "Well, it's hard to explain.  Let's just say at a certain point I found it easier to believe than to doubt."
 
     For two more hours they talked and ate some stuffed peppers Cassandra heated in the microwave  and drank and laughed and filled each other in.  Cassandra recounted her years at Rutgers University, her newspaper writing and later magazine editing, and her rocky six-year marriage to a dentist from Red Bank with wandering eyes and a cocaine habit.
     At about 10 p.m. her managing editor called, and Rom played with the binoculars again as Cassandra told her all about Port Authority.  Despite orders to the contrary, Cassandra assured her boss she'd be in to work the next day, a publication day at their twice-weekly magazine.  After she hung up, she went into her room and emerged with an old cigar box.
     "Well, Father, forgive me, but I'm still a sinner and I need a joint.  I don't suppose you indulge anymore."
     "No thanks, but knock yourself out."
     Cassandra smiled gratefully.  "That's the idea."  She started to roll a joint and looked up at Rom.  "I guess I feel a little silly getting high in front of you."
     Rom put his hand on her knee.  "Hey, forget it.  This wine isn't exactly medicinal.  And listen — "  She stopped now and looked at him.  "I hope," he said, "that you'll think of me as a regular guy, Cassandra.  A guy that, you know, you used to know.  Please."
     She smiled and offered her hand.  "Deal.  Now do me a favor?"
     "Anything."
     "Bless this joint, will you?  I've always wanted to see holy smoke."
     They laughed at the bad joke, and others like it, for another hour or so until Cassandra rose to go to bed.  She easily convinced Rom to stay the night in the small spare room, then pulled out the sofa bed for him, found some sheets and blankets and told him to sleep late.  Then she hugged him and kissed his cheek.
     "At first I was sorry you picked this night to come see me," she said.  "But now I'm really glad.  And I wish you weren't going to Rome next week."
     The smell of her hair and the warmth of her body made Rom's heart flutter.  He stood back from her. "Yeah, me too."
     After she went to bed, Rom washed up, made up the sofa bed and got under the covers.  He could still smell Cassandra in the room.  He got out of bed again, knelt beside it and said his prayers, then tumbled back into the moderately comfortable bedding.  He lay awake for almost an hour, taking inventory of his feelings.  He cataloged satisfaction for good food and drink; pride in Cassandra and her bravery; rage at the creep who'd hurt her; a small but growing uncertainty about his upcoming trip, and, as he drifted off to sleep, the desire to take Cassandra in his arms and make love to her.
     The next thing he knew, it was morning and the phone in the next room was chirping.  He quickly pulled on his pants and went into the living room.  There was a note from Cassandra next to the phone on the coffee table.  He picked up the receiver.
     "Lopez residence," he croaked, then cleared his throat.
     The voice was clinical, female.  "I'm calling for a Mr. Rom Soriano?"  She mispronounced it, rhyming it with "Tom."
     "Speaking."
     "This is the Savarin Clinic, Mr. Soriano, we need to set up another appointment for you."
     Rom, still sleepy, felt annoyed.  "Well — you guys said I was done there."
     "Sir, we need you to come in for an HIV series retest."
     "Huh?  Is there a problem?"
     "Sir, it's not our policy to discuss test results over the phone."
     Suddenly Rom was completely, terribly awake.