"Here we are," Mario says, fumbling with keys, pushing her through the doorway. He kisses her in his kitchenette, her job-hunting dress pressed up against the sticky, crumbed bench, covered in take-out boxes. As Mario's lips explore her neck, she examines his apartment. There are comic books on the wall, hung by silver bulldog clips. There are racks of comic books next to the sofa. There are beer crates of comic books in precarious towers. In the corner of the room, a cardboard cutout of Wookie from Star Wars stands guard.

Mario's lips are a lot harder than they look. His chin prickles her breast. She sticks her hand down the back of his trousers. His bum is soft and warm, but he clenches it at her touch.

It's strange to be seduced in the afternoon light. Ella's eczema blares in her elbows. Mario pulls her onto the sofa, where a ballpoint pen digs a blue hole into her shoulder blade. He marks out the circles formed by her nipples and belly button, explores the trigonometry of her hipbones and pubis. "You have a condom, don't you?" she asks him, but he doesn't answer. "You have to wear a condom, please"

"Heather," he breathes, as his penis bumps and nubs its way inside her.

Ella wakes up to the sound of the keys in the door. She hadn't realised that Mario had left. She is covered by a cotton sheet. She half sits up, unsticking a comic book from her cheek. Mario is standing over her, a paper bag in hand. "What time is it?" Ella asks.

"7.30. Here, have this." He hands her a warm bagel wrapped in grease proof paper.

"Shit! 7.30 in the morning?"

"No, 7.30 at night."

Ella unwraps it, butter dripping between her fingers. Mario eats one filled with cream cheese. "Do you want to swap halves? I didn't know which you'd prefer."

"This is fine," says Ella, rivulets running down her chin.

"Listen, I gotta go to work, so you should leave too."

"Work? But it's 7.30!"

"It's the time difference thing. I gotta be talking to the manufacturers in China during their working hours."

"Can you speak Cantonese?"

"No, nor Mandarin. But the floor manager speaks English."

"Are you sure you can't give me any more clues about what you're making? I'm probably going to be working as a waitress, it's unlikely that I'll be able to steal your trade secrets."

"Look, Heather, my parents don't know any more than you do."

"It's Ella."

"Ella. Anyway, I'm going now, but if you like you can take a shower before you leave. Just close the door behind you, it locks automatically." Mario leans towards her and kisses her buttery lips. "Mmmm," he says. At the door he turns. "Leave your number," he says. "I'll call you."

Ella walks down Second Avenue, her hair wet from the shower. She thinks of the note she left, depicting herself as a kind of Power Puff girl, but with breasts. She hopes that he calls. Then again, Heather never put out, and he still carries around her handkerchief. The night is crisp, and Ella isn't scared of muggers. She walks past restaurants filled with beautiful people laughing and eating. Right now, she doesn't want to be at their tables, inside their skin. She's quite happy with her own, and that swollen ache between her legs. Her hair feels radiant, moon-coloured. Her dress clings to her curves, as do appreciative gazes. She feels hungry and lucky, like she's going to find a job tomorrow. She wants to captivate others from a café window. She'll go to the Moroccan place with the Village Voice recommendation down St Marks Place.

"How many?" the maître d' asks.

"One," Ella replies. He tries to send her to the back of the restaurant, to where the doors swing into the kitchen. "No," she says. "I want to sit there." The maître d' grudgingly complies, tossing the menu at her as she sits down.

"May I tell you about the specials tonight, madame?" asks a different waiter. Ella's eyes are closed; she inhales the rich spice. "We have a bastilla, a delicacy of ouarka pastry and pigeon meat, dusted in sugar..."

The words roll over Ella's tongue, saliva springing to greet prunes, almonds and fennel bulbs. This might be better than eating. When she hears what she most wants, she opens her eyes. "Mario?" she says.

"Hassan," he replies.

"No, no, you're Mario."

"Would you like to order now? Or do you need some time?" His face remains impassive, defying recognition. Why won't he acknowledge her? It was only a few hours ago that she tucked that lock of hair behind his ear. "I'm Ella, don't you see? We had sex. I'm sorry about Heather, but if this is your idea of a joke...you know me!" Ella hears her voice as though it's in another room, ringing through the walls. Other diners turn to look.

"Madam, please, I must ask you to calm down. You have me mistaken. Now, would you like an appetiser to start?"

"Actually, I've changed my mind." Ella pushes back her chair, and gathers her bag in a clumsy embrace, knocking another customer's wine across his plate of couscous. She runs out of the restaurant. The door tinkles as Mario runs after her.

"Madam, madam?" he calls.

She stops and turns.

"You forgot your coat."