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It was a mistake to have accepted Amy's invitation. We had been broken up for two years and the last thing I wanted was to rekindle any part of our relationship. But I feared that declining could somehow be misconstrued as me still being fearfully, immaturely, trapped in the past, unable to move forward and "just be friends," proof no doubt that I harbored feelings for her and lamented my decision to end the relationship.

So I said, "Yes, Amy, that sounds great. I'd love to see the performance with you."

The performance was by Zingaro, a French dance company who famously incorporated live horses into their act, and it was staged, for lack of an adequate venue, under a giant big top tent in Battery Park. It was all the rage in New York City. And it was also very expensive. So my motives in accepting were duplicitous.

Amy not had changed since I had seen her last. Even her clothes looked the same, baggy and unstylish. It was October and she wore a green coat that looked two sizes too big, which I'm sure she prided herself on having bought at a reduced price. Or perhaps a friend had given it to her. Either way it was not yet cold enough to warrant wearing a coat, so it added to her somewhat impoverished demeanor. Impoverishment that was contradicted by the extravagant tickets she held in her hand.

"Hello!"

"Hello!"

We kissed and embraced, her body felt frail and birdlike in my arms. This saddened me.

Once we had settled into our seats under the big tent she began acting coquettish, failing to make eye contact, giggling at anything I said, none of which was in keeping with her character, and I feared that she might be angling to talk about us. I did not want to talk about us, so I made every effort to engage her on a wide range of topics-career, friends, family-until I became fearful that this was being interpreted as romantic interest. So after that I stopped saying anything at all, and sat in silence. Although, this too, I worried, might be interpreted incorrectly.

Eventually the lights mercifully went down and the dance started. I was immediately captivated by the horses galloping around just a few feet from me, kicking up dust as if they were on the prairie. Amy and I applauded. And then the dancers, dressed in white robes, made their appearance, performing elegant, acrobatic movements, apparently without any fear of being trampled.

Within ten minutes I was bored out of my mind. And then I was annoyed. What at first seemed mesmerizing was now pretentious, including the white robes, the tolling gongs, and the excruciatingly slow movements supposedly full of metaphor. To pass the time I became fixated on trying to detect when the horses moved their bowels-which was with shocking frequency-and how the performers managed to avoid stepping in it.

At intermission Amy and I stood in the long line waiting to get refreshments. We made small talk. And then I sensed it was getting back to us.

"Hey, Amy," I said without preamble, "I just want to make sure that we're here at this performance as friends."

The statement caught her off guard. She looked shocked, and then she looked confused. For a moment I thought she might cry. Finally she asked, "Do you know how f-ed up you are?" She asked it loud enough so that people in the refreshment line turned to see. "Do you have any idea?"

It was my turn to be caught off guard. "O.K.," I said, "I just wanted to make sure."

But Amy didn't care about "making sure." She turned and stood facing me, just inches away, her shoulders cocked to the side as if she was considering punching me in the face. "You are so f-ed up!" she screamed, so that now all the hundreds of milling audience members could hear. "You are so f-ed up! You are so f-ed up!"

"O.K.," I tried to say again, "I just wanted to make sure."

The second act she did not move. Not once. She sat with her coat on and her arms folded, staring straight ahead, unmoved by the horses. I felt guilty thinking about how much she had spent for the tickets, probably far more than she could afford. Our relationship had been filled with her always broke, running out of groceries, falling behind on the rent, asking me for a loan, and all the while dismissing my concerns with a wave of her hand and some New Age adage about how everything works out in the end for good people.

When the performance was over she didn't applaud but instead stood up and tried to exit the big top tent as fast as she could. The exits were packed and it took time for her to maneuver through. I followed her trying to think of something to say to smooth it all over. Once outside I lost sight of her, but then I caught a glimpse of the green coat, and I called out "Amy!" But this only made her walk faster as if she were being pursued by a stranger down a dark street. "Amy! Amy!" She did not turn around. And that was the last time I ever saw her.