It was 1:30 in the morning. I got off the D at Broadway-Lafayette. At the corner of Second and Houston a guy walked up next to me, close. He wore a pink T-shirt, which clung to his soft hips, baggy jeans, and flip-flops. He sang something in an affected New York theater voice. He glanced at me but I didn’t meet his gaze. On the other side stood an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a small black boombox. He took a drag from his cigarette and make a remark about the length of the light. We’d had a red hand for a while. The guy in the pink T-shirt shrugged. “You’ve got a point,” said salt-and-pepper guy in response. “At least we’re not driving.” How do I know if it’s love, crooned David Lee Roth Sammy Hagar from the boombox. I can’t tell you but it lasts forever, replied his bandmates.