Saturday, Oct. 19, 12:20 p.m.

    The dented, slate-gray little Datsun  rolled down U.S. Route 1 & 9, an old urban highway whose traffic had outgrown it long ago. Tanker trucks and semis competed for the three lanes of battered southbound road with locals, commuters, interstate travelers and the legions of shoppers from Staten Island out to capitalize on Jersey's smaller sales tax.  This stretch of the road, through Linden, 15 miles south of Newark, smelled of diesel and refineries.  Down the road a few more miles, Route 9 would branch off toward the Jersey Shore, and Route 1 would continue its marathon journey to Key West.
     Rom Soriano slowed for a car that had swerved in front him; then he scanned the mirrors, signaled and launched the Datsun into the leftmost lane.  His driving had become more aggressive.  Cassandra Lopez checked her watch, fished in her bag, withdrew a cigaret.  "Not that I don't like the scenery," she said, "but we are close, I hope."
     "Indeed we are.  We just passed Stash's, where Monsignor Stawarski took me to dinner a couple weeks back, and if I remember his directions correctly, we are five traffic lights away."  He looked over at her and smiled.  She looked perfect in the passenger seat.  Her tan skin, recharged by a couple days of Florida sun, glowed against her lustrous black hair.  The maroon sweater hugged her small bosom and slender waist, and her legs looked long and lovely in blue jeans.  Small diamond earrings caught the light and sent it sparking out again, and when she looked over at him, her slightly crossed, deep brown eyes spoke of trust and playfulness.
     She had greeted him warmly a short while ago when he'd picked her up at the Colonnades, and he'd spent the first part of the drive — down McCarter Highway and past the airport — listening to her account of her Orlando assignment, apparently four days of humidity, insects and boring speeches by travel industry bigwigs.
     When she asked how his week had gone, he paused for a moment.  What could he say —  that Christ never had it so hard in Gethsemane? In a session that left his knees aching, he'd confessed his sins, his adventures and his doubts, and had gotten off lightly when instructed by the thunderstruck young priest to "skip the Hail Marys and pray like hell." He'd spent the last few days in his old neighborhood, either in his rooms writing, or walking.  He'd rediscovered the old bridle trail in Branch Brook Park running along the subway line, and had taken long walks, as far north as Belleville, praying —  sometimes with his brain, sometimes with his heart.
     What was he doing here?  What did he want?  What was required of him?  He had never been happier than when in his classroom, teaching, sharing, making a difference.  Savoring and steering the fresh vibrant spirits that came to learn, and especially those who didn't.  As a parish priest he was honored, well utilized and well looked after.  A man must work, and who better to serve than God?
     But God made man and woman, and here was a woman.  Was she from God?  This love he felt for her — how could this be wrong?  Was it not divine?  Why must he be made to choose between these two worlds, and how could he? Was he getting everything a man could ask, or was he throwing everything away?  Even now, as he neared the point at which he must tell her something, it wasn't clear what that would be.  "How has my week gone?  Ah. Extremely deliberately.  Let me get some food into me and I'll go into lavish detail.  I skipped breakfast."
     "Me too.  I'm starved."
     They were passing the General Motors plant, and Rom checked the mirrors and moved back into the center lane ahead of a car that had been lounging a few lengths back.  Its driver sped up and honked.  "Up yours!" Rom blurted.  The words sounded involuntary and very Newark.  Cassandra smiled and squinted at him.
     "Excuse me," she said.  "What have you done with Rom Soriano?  You know, the mild-mannered gentleman who came to town a couple weeks ago?"
     Rom accelerated smartly into a spot in the rightmost lane.  "Just like riding a bicycle.  You never really forget."
     At E. Grand Avenue in Rahway he signaled, exited and took a jughandle turn across the highway and into the parking lot of the White Castle restaurant.  Aromas of coffee and onions and tobacco greeted them as they entered.  A couple dozen patrons, a multiracial mixture of families and truckers and travelers and cops, sat in plastic chairs at spartan blue formica tables chowing down on paper-platefuls of the small, square burgers.  Fragments of conversations peppered the atmosphere with similar but distinct accents: Jersey City, Brooklyn, Philly.
     Behind the glass-enclosed counter, workers scurried with stacks of frozen meat, buns, french fry baskets and soft drinks, the women gossiping and laughing, the young men trying to look as cool as they could in their blue-and-white uniforms.  On one wall, beneath a poster of a plate of steaming burgers, the question was posed: "Hamburgers for Breakfast?  Why Not?"
     The two took their place on line.  "So this place gets four stars from the monsignor?" said Cassandra.
     "In the end, we are but men. And we are weak."
     "Well, I'm weak with hunger, so here I am. But next time I pick the joint "
     Rom ordered eight cheeseburgers, Cassandra six, and they brought them, along with fries and chocolate shakes, to a table near the window.  "What is it about these things?" Rom asked after eating the first burger in two bites.  "They're tiny, greasy and they give you gas.  And they have holes in them."
    "That's why they're 58 cents and not 60."
     "You've got this all figured out."
     Cassandra lifted a burger.  "I'd like to expound, but I'm too hungry."
     The two sat in the noisy dining room, savoring the burgers and occasionally glancing over toward Route 1&9, whose traffic roared by the plate glass windows.  After a while Cassandra pushed her plate away, leaving one burger.  "I can't eat another bite," she said.
     "More for me," said Rom, reaching for the leftover.
     Cassandra wiped her mouth and looked around.  "So, um, tell me about your week."
     Rom finished the burger and drained his milkshake.  He wiped his mouth and took a deep breath.  He looked at Cassandra.
     "You're dumping me," she said levelly.
     "Huh?"
     "It's a good thing, wasn't it, that I had that trip to Florida.  Kinda gave us both time to think.  I know that's what you did all week.  I'm sorry to make you say it."
     "Cassandra —"
     "It's true, isn't it?  I've been a selfish bitch.  I've got no business trying to screw up your life."
     "You have not screwed up my life," said Rom.  He reached across the table and took her hand.  "I have never been so, so full of life as I have these past two weeks."
     "Well, you're full of something," she said.  "Listen, I've had that time to think, too, and what I think is that I have totally fucked up what was a great life you had, and that it's not too late to admit it and apologize and give you back to that life."
     "Apologize?"
     "Yes, apologize.  I'm sorry.  Not for falling in love with you, but for acting on it.  That was dumb.  I'm sorry."
     "Cassandra, you have nothing to be sorry for — "
     "Yes, I do.  I didn't give you a chance to dump me."
     They sat for a moment, holding hands, laughing.  Cassandra wiped away a tear.  "I need a cigaret," she said.