"So what have you been doing since Barcelona?" Ella asks.

"I'm working on my product. I've got people in China manufacturing it as we speak. But it's pre-launch, so I gotta be careful about what I say."

"Can't you give me a clue?"

"You're not going to find out anymore than last time you asked me," he replies. "And then I told you too much. Anyone would think that you're an international spy."

"I'd be a lousy spy because I have a memory like a sieve. I can't even remember your name."

He widens his eyes at Ella. "It's Mario, I didn't think you'd forget. And I'm making a toy. I told you last time."

"A toy? Like Barbie?"

"No, not like Barbie. More like Play Station. We got a movie script in development to coincide with its launch. We're running that out of the LA studio. I go to Asia a lot to oversee production."

"But you live here, right?"

"Yeah, I live in the East Village. Next to the best bagel shop in town. Wakes me up every morning. Smells good though. You should go there."

"Maybe I will," says Ella. Mario smiles. He drains beer, laughs at the cherry stone, the orange peel that Ella chews on. She's feeling a little dizzy. Where are the bar snacks? The cheese flavoured fish, the peanuts? "Another round?" he asks.

"Sure," says Ella. "I'll get it."

"No, please, allow me." Mario waves a $20 bill at the bartender. "So where's your daughter?" he asks.

A daughter? This is getting tough.   "She's with her father, my ex. I miss her a lot."

"But you told me that her father was dead."

"Did I? I probably meant that I wished he was dead. The custody battle did my head in."

"You were going to La Sagrada Familia. A private memorial. That's what you said. An architect, right? He'd fallen off scaffolding on the building he designed the year before. You said I reminded you of him and I cried, remember? You gave me your handkerchief. I still have it, see?" Mario fishes around in his pocket, and withdraws a red tartan man's handkerchief, stiffened with snot. "Here. I meant to give it back, but I couldn't bring myself to."

"Please, keep it," says Ella. This poor, sensitive, beautiful man. She can't do this any longer. "I'm not Heather, Mario, my name is Ella. And I've never been to Barcelona."

Mario chokes on his beer. He puts it down, snorting. His face reddens. "What the fuck? Are you trying to take me for something? Get out of here."

"I just wanted to talk, that's all. Like you did to Heather." says Ella.

"Jesus! What medication are you on?" He pushes back his bar stool, grabbing his coat.

"Stop, Mario, I'm sorry, I thought this was an elaborate pick-up."

"I was empathizing with Heather, not hitting on her."

"Were you? I've just got here. I don't know anybody. I thought you looked cute, you seemed like the kind of guy I would like to, you know..." She puts her hand on his arm, and flutters her eyelashes, gluggy with mascarra.

Mario looks at her and shakes his head, turning to walk away. Then he stops. He lays his coat on the bar stool next to him. He takes a sip of beer.

"Let me tell you about Heather." Mario breathes into Ella's ear. "She was a little uptight. You're not like that, are you?"

"No." Ella gulps.

"So...shall we?"

  She's not that kind of girl. But maybe the blonde Ella is. "Let me powder my nose."

In the bathroom Ella shakily applies lipstick, and finger-combs her hair. Does she really want to sleep with this guy, or is she just relieved that he hasn't slapped her? And this is New York City, Mario probably has AIDS. She checks which underwear she's wearing. Pink cotton. Why didn't she wear her black satin ones? Hopefully they'll tear each other's clothes off, leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail across his apartment. Then they'll make crazy love, and before you know it, Ella will have a boyfriend, a free bagel breakfast and a life to slip into like a new pair of shoes. Manolo Blahniks, maybe, or Jimmy Choos. Something she'll have to take a taxi in. She emerges from the bathroom, observing how Mario's spine curves out of the red bar stool, how he picks at the beer bottle label. He must be nervous too.