His coordinates along Central Park proved as unpredictable and fast as anything I’d come across. I could never catch up to him, even with a head start. On those rare times I did, he was almost unrecognizable.  Fleetingly presented with a stoic man, a hard, heaving, driving man; sweaty, focused, angling for opportunity, zeroing in on his own state of affairs, deliberating over a burgeoning business, wondering what sort of shower he would step into or would it be a bath he’d take, what body part would he lather first, and how much. And what crevices and opportunities would I discover and grab onto, and if I did, would I be surprised and if so how long would it last before I was pushed away?

“Toast or grits?” the waitress said, having already taken the rest of my breakfast order down.

I put down my glassine-covered menu. I said to her, “One assumes that if one obsesses over someone that hilarity will ensue. Do you agree?”

“Toast or grits,” she repeated impatiently.

“Toast,” I told her. Because that was how I felt.