She is my neighbor now, and I've been seeing her for the past couple of weeks. She lives a block away, next to a junkyard. I walk her home from my apartment, along a busy, well-lit street. We pass a homeless man digging through trash barrels next to her front gate, she gives me a deep hug and turns her head to the left, pushing her face into my chest. Then she's deliberate, and she opens her gate and walks down the alley towards her building without looking back or waving.

I walk back to my apartment alone on a side-street. The walk reminds me of being sixteen and crushing on a summer night, but now it's winter, I'm 25, and my optimistic butterflies and smile-that-I-can't-wipe-off-my-face have been replaced by skepticism and a fierce gaze.

I walk intently, as broad-shouldered as I can because in this city it's how you walk that displays your vulnerability. I keep an eye out for movement, and I mentally startle at the sight of a lamppost or a wobbling trash barrel. The streets are empty, though, save for the occasional kid my age in a p-coat.

A Ford Explorer with tinted windows skids around a corner and just misses some 2 AM cyclists, squeals again turning at the next intersection and cruises by me. I'm not scared of the cars; I'm wary. I'm ready to run or dive for cover should something stupid happen. It doesn't, and it probably won't, but that's how I'm thinking and it doesn't bother me.

All this and the short distance of the walk put P low on the thought-priority list. I do think of her, but I try to suppress the feelings that come from reviewing the night's events.

This thing with P isn't complicated, and the other parts of my life make it easy to divert my hopes and attention. No need to worry about compatibility and sharing her with others when new jobs abound and the holidays approach.

I feel the thrill of the chase, seemingly changed. I think that's enough to get by on.