“Will it hurt?” Pressing tightly against his body, she looked at the door, trying to avoid thinking of what lay behind. Just barely holding back her tears.

“I imagine it will. I’m sorry.”

For a few moments the silence in the room was broken only by the sound of distant sirens coming from somewhere on the streets far below. Even the curtains rippled soundlessly beside the open window. Unable to contain herself any longer, she broke down and started to cry, and her sobbing, too, was silent, the tears making no sound as they rolled off her cheeks and onto the bed.

Saying nothing, he simply held her closer. Over the next few minutes, she cried into his chest, before she finally relaxed and was still.

“Could I ask you something?”

She nodded without looking up.

“I’d like to know your name. Your real name. Estelle sounds very exotic and all, and I suppose you need a stage name, but don’t you think we’re well beyond that point by now?”

She lifted her head. Wiping the last of her tears away, she looked at him through red-rimmed eyes. The look he gave him was the same one she had earlier that evening when he opened the door. All traces of vulnerability were gone, locked behind that steely gaze.

“I can’t see why you would even care. You got what you wanted.”

He looked into her eyes and said nothing. Finally, she lowered her gaze.

“It’s Candelaria. My grandmother chose it. She’s Italian. My friends just call me Candy.”

“Candy,” he repeated and chuckled. Seeing her look of confusion, he continued, “I was just thinking that you don’t really need a stage name after all. Candy suits you perfectly.”

“That’s why I chose Estelle. The irony would have been too much. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be for some guy to complain afterwards about me not living up to my own name? They’d never believe that I hadn’t made it up for self-promotional purposes.”

He chuckled again, and a slight smile touched her lips. There had been no bitterness in her remark, just the tacit acceptance that that was how the world worked, and the streets had taught her not to fight against the inevitable.

“How did you get into this?” It was immediately apparent by her expression that it was the wrong thing to ask.

“What do you think?”

“Drugs?”

She shook her head and gave him a contemptuous look.

“Typical,” she replied, the bitterness finally emerging. She muttered something unintelligible under her breath and turned away from him.

He sat silently on the bed, his surprise at her violent reaction mingling freely with the wry realization that she hadn’t been angry enough to exit his embrace. Amusement that disappeared quickly enough, once he remembered why she wanted to be comforted. And once again, they both sat in expectant, nervous silence.

After an eternity of silence contained within fifteen seconds, she turned to look at him. All traces of bitterness had disappeared, leaving her expression sad. Sad and tired.

“You know what hurts me most? Being here with you. You’re just like the rest of them. By tomorrow I would have forgotten your face.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know anything about me!” He replied.

She snorted.

“I know all about you. You’re just like all the rest. Lawyers. Dentists. Company vice-presidents. Important people who used their drive and their effort to get to the top. And they think that everyone who isn’t at the top is a piece of furniture. None of you can understand the rest of the people who share your world. You think that some guy who drives a cab is doing that because he didn’t want to go to college. It never occurs to you to think that, just maybe, Joe Schmoe the cabbie had to quit high school to go to work to support his brothers, does it?” She looked at him defiantly. “And, of course, if a girl’s a whore, it’s obvious that she’s a junkie. Screw you, mister computer millionaire!”

“How did you…”

“How did you know what I do?” She mocked him, imitating his voice, but with a whining quality. She pulled her arm away savagely. “See what I mean? You automatically assume ‘hey, she’s a whore in New York. I’m from LA, and she’ll never have picked up any business magazines. I’m as good as anonymous.’ Well, asshole, I have news for you. I may be poor. I may be a whore and a single mother, but I’m giving it more of an effort than you will ever have imagined. I’m at the community college every day of the week, trying to get my business degree. That’s how I knew instantly who you were. We did a business case on your company last week in Marketing class. Only you’re fatter in real life than in photos.”

Eyes ablaze, she seemed to be challenging him to open his mouth. He didn’t.

“And,” she continued, “before you ask, I know exactly who the father was. He was a blue-eyed loser from Jersey who decided he wanted to marry an Italian teenager with too many sisters and not enough experience to avoid overlooking the fact that he was a shiftless jerk with no future. Took me seven years and a hungry little girl before I finally learned enough about life to get the hell out of his. I left him and I’ve never looked back.”

Her outburst completed, silence fell over them once more.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Good.”

“But at the same time, you’re absolutely wrong. We’re much more alike than you could possibly think.” He smiled at her look of outrage.

“Sure, the whore and the millionaire. We’re probably twins separated at birth.” She shook her head. “God, what a jerk.”

“Look at you.” He laughed. “Just a minute ago you were calling me out for prejudging you as a junkie. Looking at you like furniture. And what, pray, are you doing right now? You actually prejudged me. Twice. First, I was just another John. To be forgotten as soon as you earned the money. Just like the rest, you said—I’m just an object to them. Now, I seem to have become the rich kid whose only possible problem is where to invest his assets to grow his wad. You probably think I have the perfect life. The perfect house, the perfect wife, the perfect kids, the perfect job, the perfect friends. I know about this. I was just like you once.”

“Right. Was this before or after you went to UCLA?” She asked.

“You read about that in the business case, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“God, I hate those cases.” He sighed.

“Why? Self-promoter like you should love the attention.”

“The cases never say that I went to college on a scholarship. I was an all-state fullback in high school. They never say that the job I got selling internet subscriptions was given to me by a friend out of pity, because he knew that I could never afford to pay for school after injuring my leg. The cases all talk about drive and strength. They never mention summer nights hanging out listening to rap music in Oakland, barely surviving on my mother’s disability pension.”

She said nothing.

“And you wanna know something else?” He continued, “I can’t think of a single friend that I have now who isn’t in it for the money. My money to be exact.”

“Your wife…”

“Especially my wife! You should be able to understand her motivations—only she went for a larger paycheck. And before you mention it, the kids are spoiled brats. Hanging out with the other rich kids. Do you know their parents won’t invite me to their social events? You might not know that I’m from the gutter, but they do. It doesn’t matter to them that I could probably buy them a hundred times over. I’m still not good enough for them. Hah! What do you think of that?”

“I…” her voice trailed off and tears filled her eyes. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

He held her closer.

“No. It doesn’t. But I wanted you to know. It seemed important. I mean, in my world miracles don’t happen, so I’m not really expecting one.”

“I know what you mean. Although I feel I’m probably due. Won’t happen though. Never has.” She smiled bitterly. “Can you hear it?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes tighter. The cracking of the fire outside their door was much louder. Not long now.

“Well, at least we’ll give them a hell of a time trying to identify us. I checked in under a different name.”

“They didn’t even ask for my name, they knew right off the bat. Hotel clerks always know. I don’t know how. They just do.”

“Well, I guess there’s always the dental records in California…” He smiled.

“Police records right here in New York.” She smiled back.

He pulled her closer, feeling genuine warmth for her for the very first time.

The long silence was broken only by the crackling outside the door. The smoke was thick enough that it was hard to read her expression, even with the open window.

“Will it hurt?” She asked.

He said nothing. There was nothing more to be said.