Rachel Cohn - Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

Dev nods. "Exactly."

"Where do we come up with this shit?" I ask. "I mean, where do these words all come from? I sit here on this sidewalk and they just appear to me."

"Maybe they're always there and you just need to live enough life to get them to make sense," Dev says.

Someone whistles a birdcall behind us. Dev and I both turn, and there's Ted just out of the club, shining like a diamond under a spotlight. He's keeping a respectful distance, but I can tell he's waiting.

"You gonna go hold his hand?" I ask Dev playfully.

"Hell, yes," Dev says, sitting up now. "Don't get me wrong-we're totally going to make the beast with two backs tonight. But if we do it right, it's going to feel like holding hands."

There's no way Ted could've heard us. But when Dev walks over to him, Ted offers his palm. I watch them walk down the street, hand in hand. I don't think they notice, but their legs are in perfect rhythm. Before they round the corner, they both turn as one and wave a goodnight to me.

I'm on my own again. I decide to check my messages-and realize that not only have I lost my fucking jacket, but I've also lost my fucking phone. So many indignities and I start to feel indignant. But that's nothing compared to trying to find a pay phone on Ludlow Street at three or so in the morning. I walk all the way back to Houston before I find one on the corner of a deli. The receiver feels like it's covered with pond scum, and the dial tone seems to be coming from North Dakota. The first three quarters are returned to the drop slot. I am about to lose my shit entirely, but then the next two quarters stay put and the volume button amps things up enough that I can actually hear the call start.

Norah answers on the fourth ring.

"Who the hell is this?" she asks.

I mean, I knew she would answer. But still I'm dumbstruck.

"Is Nick there?" I finally ask.

"No," she says. "He's out defeating a minor threat. Do you want to call back for his voice mail?"

It's like I can't help it. I am absolutely falling back into conversation with her.

"Can you give him a message?" I ask.

"Do I need a pen? Cuz if I do, you're so fucking out of luck."

"No. Could you just tell him that he totally blew it when he let Norah get away in that cab?"

There's a pause. "Who the fuck is this?"

"And could you let him know that I'm really fucking relieved that he has finally unshackled himself from that Tris bitch?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"And could you pass on the message that it's not enough to be sitting alone on a sidewalk writing a song for a girl if you don't have the guts to at least try talking to her again?"

Another pause. "Are you serious?"

"Where are you?"

"Veselka. Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter," I say. "I'll be at Veselka soon. In the meantime, can you pass on my message?"

I hang up before she can reply.

That is so rude, hanging up on a person like that.

I refuse to believe that call just happened. I'm so sleepy I'm hallucinating.

Just in case, I go into the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face to wake the fuck up, finger through my hair to make it look tousled in an attractive way but not so attractive that it looks like I tousled it because I care what it looks like, and reach down inside my shirt to rearrange my boobs. Salvatore looks the other way.

When I get back to the table, it's heaped with food: the bowl of hot borscht (better than my bubbe's, but I'll never admit that to her face), half a dozen pierogies, some kielbasa. The blintzes should be following soon. What can I say, I am very, very hungry, and I am craving meat bad. I can save the leftovers for the witch lady or some other street person outside.

I dive into the food like I have just been released from prison. I think I have borscht dribbling down my chin when I manage to look up from my quantum inhalation. He's here. Holy shit. Memo to Merle Haggard: Miracles really do happen.

I am still embarrassed, but I also remember, I am renewed, destined for my certain future as a U.N. humanitarian. I am immune from throwing myself at him again, seeing as how I've committed to a future life of loneliness and celibacy. It probably won't be so bad. I will never get an STD, I will never have to worry about a condom breaking again, and the lack of sex, or even having to think about it, want it, strive for it, will probably lead me to a higher plane of enlightenment, like the Dalai Lama. So it's all good. Zero balance. Nick can relax. I won't gobble him, too.

Nick doesn't speak at first, he just sits down and butters a piece of challah toast and lays right into that, equaling my fervor. Between swallows, he asks, "How many fucking people did you order food for anyway?" He takes a sip of my Coke, belches, then repeats my last words to him back to me. "'You are absolved'? What the fuck did that mean?" He sounds hostile but he's got that fucking half smile laced back on his lips.

I am determined to sulk, but the truth is, I want to lick him all over. I cannot believe he is here. I want to do truly nasty things to him. With him.

I try to sound blase. "It means, we met under kind of strange circumstances and spent a few kind of strange hours together, but just because I made an asshole of myself doesn't mean you have to go all Nice Guy and like try to push our whatever-it-was any farther. Anyway, we don't even know each other and we've never even been properly introduced-"

Nick interrupts me by extending his hand, slick with traces of butter. "I'm Nick," he says. "I'm from a swingin' little hood called Hoboken. Where's Fluffy were my favorite band until tonight. I write songs. I was dumped by a wildebeest but I'm working on getting over it. And you?"

I shake his hand and try hard to suppress a smile. I don't owe him that. "I'm Norah," I say. "From Englewood fuckin' not-swingin' Cliffs. Where's Fluffy were also my favorite band until tonight. I love songs that are written. I dumped a wildebeest and he dumped me and it's been this endless miserable spiral, but I'm also getting over it."

"Hi, Norah," he says.

"Hi, Nick," I answer.

"Can I have my fucking jacket back?"

"No." I deserve some reward for my rejection and for my future life of celibacy and good deeds.

"Why?"

"Because Salvatore wants me to have it."

"He told you that?"

"He did."

"But what if the jacket didn't really belong to Salvatore? What if it wasn't his to give you? What if it really belonged to his evil twin, Salamander, who only had Salvatore's name stenciled on so people would mistake him for the good twin and then Salamander would be free to carry on with his nefarious mission in life?"

"What nefarious mission would that be?"

"You know, world domination, that whole thing."

"World domination is exhausting and cliche. People ought to just focus on being individual responsible citizens of the earth instead of assholes. And you can tell that to Salamander next time he comes asking you for his jacket. Tell him me and Salvatore are starting our own new world order. It's called the Chill the Fuck Out and Let the Girl Have the Jacket movement."

"Will there be T-shirts and pins for this new movement?"

"Probably. We're looking into luggage insignia as well, maybe even some corporate product endorsements from Nike or IBM."

I don't realize I am laughing, or even moving, until Nick takes a strand of hair that's fallen in front of my face and tucks it behind my ear and for a second I feel my breath on his arm. Because now we are looking at each other eye to eye and there's possibly forgiveness in there, and it's possibly mutual, and for that second my stomach feels this momentary lurch of hope, it's the same feeling as dread, and because I am a fucking loser who never learns, I blurt out, "I sort of know you already, actually."