Imagine sitting in a "near bucolic" coffee shop alongside the Bronx River, about a quarter mile north of the sewage treatment plant. The woman standing before my table asked me if I won, and I told her my story won first prize for science fiction. "Well, you can take that prize money and buy me for a trip around the world." Her voice was like honey. I put back on my glasses because I am thoroughly nearsighted, and I was taken aback. The voice did not match the face or the figure. Her pimp was standing by the trash can, giving me the evil eye, because there was no way he was making bucks with this unpleasant example of humanity. The cop sitting in his squad car across the street was giving me a look too, probably wondering if he would be writing me another "drunk and disorderly" at 9:00 on a weekday. I managed to rise from my seat without spilling coffee, which had a faint tinge of methane now that I tasted it. With my head held high, I wished everyone a good morning and carried on down the street without stumbling once. Made my day, I tell you, made my day.