She follows.

They came to a subway station, and Alex jogged down the cement stairs. He bought them both a fare card, handing hers over without looking at her.

She silently takes it.

They rode the crowded subway in silence. Alex sat leaning back with his knees slightly apart, tapping his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. His reflection was in the darkened window opposite, the slant of his cheekbones, the tense line between his dark eyebrows, the shape of his lips were all visible.

She just stays silent.

When they got to Lexington Avenue, Alex stood up without saying anything. As they emerged out onto the streets again, the sun was setting, clouds bleeding red against the sky. They were in another run-down neighborhood, though not nearly as bad as the one in the Bronx. The signs here were in both English and Spanish.

She doesnt say anything.

He didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular, just wandering from street to street. After a while they came to a residential area lined with old brownstones and parked cars. Here in the city, the evening still had a tinge of summer to it, and people were sitting outside on their front steps, talking and laughing. Rock music throbbed through the air, something with a heavy beat and warbling Spanish lyrics.

She just stays silent.

She's probably never felt more conscious of her blonde hair before. Because everyone, including Alex, had dark hair.

"Bingo," murmured Alex. There was an olive-green Mustang Boss parked on the side of the street, maybe a '69 or '70. It was sort of beat-up, with a dent on the hood and another on the passenger-side door, but it was still a classic, with hard, muscular lines. There was a sign on it:
$1200 OBO