Outside my window, overlooking Eighth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, three cars joined fenders in holy communion and traffic backed up for several blocks, honking in celebration. Next door my Puerto Rican neighbor was having a fight with her boyfriend, or maybe they were just saying goodbye. They shouted and then in the sudden stillness that followed, I imagined they struggled, fell into each other's arms and made love. Half-asleep, I felt Toni moving restlessly next to me, but it was too early to get up.

"A Chelsea Morning,” she hummed in my ear. “What a way to start the day.”

The morning sun brushed us gently, sparkling through her tangled reddish hair. A spidery layer of frost covered the window. Pulling the covers around us I tried to put my arm around her warmth.  "I don't want to be late," she said suddenly as she jumped out of bed, put on my sweatshirt and tiptoed across the cold tattered linoleum to the bathroom.

The phone rang. A message from the landlord reminding me that my rent was overdue.  

When I peeked over the edge of the bed, Che wagged her tail and stared at me in anticipation. She needed to go out, but I was lazy, Toni was still around and the apartment was freezing. The boiler had been "broken," or the landlord had refused to pay the oil company, or both.

When I'd found Che shivering and stunned in the middle of the slush-filled street she was so thin and battered that I wasn’t sure she'd survive. But she did and remained obedient and loyal, happy to have found a home. There were times when I needed her companionship as well. Toni flushed and dashed back into bed. "Burrr," she shivered, warming herself against me.

We'd met at an anti-war demonstration the day before. She'd carried a huge sign almost as big as herself, a picture of crying Vietnamese children covered by dollar signs; mine portrayed Nixon with fangs. A line of cops stood on the other side of the street, their arms crossed or swinging billy clubs, preventing us from moving closer to the building. Chanting slogans, we looked up at people watching us from their offices in Rockefeller Center, waiting for action. People tried to avoid looking at us as they passed swaddled in heavy coats, sucked in through the revolving doors, safe at last. I stamped my feet in the snow and thought of sneaking inside just to warm up.

I was attracted by Toni's wildness and her easy smile that seemed to come from as much loneliness as mine. She wore an army jacket far too large for her slight frame; I wore a long black woolen coat that had belonged to my father. I'd taken it after he died, remembering how proud he was to see me dressed nicely, a way of connecting. My mother gave the rest of his clothes to the Council Thrift Shop. He'd wanted to buy me a coat like his but I'd refused, preferring my ski jacket. It was hard for me to make concessions. I wanted to be different, to set my own mark; I also liked the coat.

"Where you going with your life?" he'd asked when I told him I'd decided to move to New York City. I didn't know; I couldn't answer and wouldn't admit that as much as I wanted the adventure I was scared.  Standing in the doorway of our solid brick home, he watched me carry boxes of books and clothes to his Buick. I wanted his blessing; he gave me a check and loaned me the car. "I'm sorry," I said, wanting a hug and drove away, regretting that I was leaving and unable to do anything else. I watched him in the rear-view mirror alone, defeated, full of expectations I could not fulfill and when I was far enough away I wept for all the things that could never be between us. At his funeral I said Kaddish, wishing he could hear me, a way of forgiving, trying to settle unfinished business.   

Toni was from the Bronx; I was a Jew from Manhattan. She was Irish Catholic; I was in therapy. We were Marxists, or at least said we were. We had the same books on Imperialism, Political Economy, and Social Revolution, and we were cold from standing outside for hours. I was happy when she accepted my invitation for spaghetti dinner at my apartment. We were hungry and impatient and got through dinner but not dessert. 

In bed we forgot our differences, overflowing with each other. I wanted to say, 'I love you,' but was afraid that she would perceive it as neediness. We didn't talk much; clinging to each other was so much simpler. It didn't matter who we were, or where we would be tomorrow. Nearly strangers who wanted to be close to someone, we found a place where that meager intimacy would suffice until the next time and the next lover. Che stretched herself and waddled to the front door.

Toni pulled the covers around her shoulders. “It’s warmer here,” she said and snuggled against me. I put my arm around her, feeling her breasts and bones and the warmth of rekindled passion. "I like that," she said as I rubbed her back. Seducing her again was easier than wading through ambivalence and the future.

Afterwards, we covered ourselves under blankets of innocence and unanswered questions, our differences and the beginning of a snowfall. I listened to her breathe into white and grey patches of sky and our smoldering silence.

She didn't touch me after we made love. Moving away she covered herself with a blanket and put her feet up against the wall. "That was nice," she said. "I'm still feeling the afterglow."  I felt proud of myself. Another "bourgeois male deviation," she would have commented.  Perhaps I was only compensating for what I couldn't grasp about relationships, about giving and taking, the incompleteness in my life and the terrible sense that in all of this I had no idea of what I really wanted. Getting laid was a substitute for self-revelation, an escape from the darkness of loss and confusion.

Propping myself up, I tried to draw her towards me; she grasped my hand and held it against her belly.

"Do you think my boobs are too small?" she asked, pushing them up. I didn't.

"You  probably do," she sighed. I wondered what she'd wanted me to say. "We talked about this in a feminist consciousness-raising session last week. One of the leaders came on to me. It was a drag." She ran her hands across my chest. "Maybe I'm up-tight about that."  

"I wasn't sure we should do this," she continued. "I mean, last night we were having such a good discussion. I didn't want to spoil it. I hope we didn't." She gazed at the ceiling and frowned. I suddenly felt far away.

"Last week I slept with a man who's in The Movement. It wasn't good; it ended our relationship. I only wanted to be friends, but he insisted and I thought it wouldn't matter, but it did. We have to be open. Liberated.  I also care about you. I mean, I feel good about this, being with you. But I don't want to get involved." 

She sounded as if she was giving me a lecture, or homework. I didn’t want to argue; it felt good enough to know that she appreciated me, if only for now. In The Movement, one has to be very tolerant and very forgiving. As we lay there listening to the noises from the street, she sat up suddenly and stared at me intently.

"Let's get something straight. I'm very busy. I have meetings and my work. I don't have a lot of extra time. So if we don't get together for a while, it isn't because I don't like you, or anything. I just don't want a heavy relationship. You know what I mean?"

I didn't, but nodded anyway.  

"There are limits to everything," I offered philosophically, feeling self-protective, not wanting to sound disappointed. "But I didn't expect..." as if I didn’t care."I understand...” I began, but didn't and wondered if she was thinking about someone else. Mao says that your head must rule over your heart. Everything must be sacrificed to The Revolution, even love.

"Don't get hurt," she said. “I don’t want any heavy trips.” Suddenly I felt like I'd been playing a game with different rules and lost. Mao says that The Revolution creates its own reality. In meditation class the teacher instructed us: "Be here now." But I didn't know where I was. Okay, I thought, I forgive you, you forgive me and I forgive myself. It all balances out.