The door to the pub opens and the guy sitting beside you, wearing a Yankees ball cap, half-falls off his barstool, staring. "Lucky bastard." He comments into his beer. "Look at that girl, man."

The girl he mentioned leans in close to her companion, speaking quietly in his ear. Her face is obscured from your view, for a minute, but she's long and tall, like a model. Black leather jacket, blue jeans and boots. She pulls away, as he puts one arm around her, protectively, almost. When she straightens up, you blink. You have to be seeing things.

There she is. Right in front of you. Chocolate eyes, that long, slim nose and the pointed, stubborn chin. She pushes her hair out of her face and walks by, not even acknowledging you. The guy with her - it's the man you saw the night you watched the precinct. Her partner, you thought. So maybe they are lovers. "I used to date that girl." You comment to Ball Cap.

He shakes his head. "Man, you're kidding. No way in hell a girl like that's gonna touch you with a ten-foot pole."

"I used to date her. A while ago."

"Oh. She's an old girlfriend. She look like that, before?"

"Better. Long hair. And she wasn't hanging onto the arm of another guy." You down your beer.

"Stings, doesn't it? You lose 'em, and then you see 'em with some other asshole."

You nod.

"Legs on that girl. . . . " Your new drinking companion whistles. "Wish she'd walk over here."

"She won't. I just know. She's with that asshole." You order another beer.

"Sucks, doesn't it? All the good-looking ones are taken."

"Mm." You hear a click of heels on the floor, as a woman walks by. You watch, closely. It's her. But she still doesn't stop to acknowledge you. She walks into the ladies' room, and the man that came with her sits on his stool and waits. Five minutes later, she comes back across the floor. You finally get the nerve to speak. "Mandy?"

She turns, her dark eyes confused. "Excuse me?"

Of course she wouldn't answer to that. It was an old nickname you had for her. "Olivia?"

"Do I know you?" She questions, confused.

"I . . . . " She probably doesn't recognize you.

She walks away, and rejoins her companion.

A few minutes later, when you're ordering your third beer, she comes back. "Hi, Mikey." She grins and reaches behind her, when her companion places a hand on your shoulder. Damn it! She's a cop. Crap.

"Get up." She orders, pulling steel handcuffs from her belt. You obediently get up and let her cuff you. You learned years ago that it was easier not to fight with the cops. Her male companion starts the familiar speech: 'Michael Lombardo, you are under arrest. . . . '

You find yourself in a holding cell, in the place called Central Booking. They're shipping you back to Rikers in the morning. You busted into her apartment. You broke the law. It's a minor charge. It's not even a felony. But being arrested is a violation of your parole.

You hear a click of heels on the floor, again. You glance up, seeing her standing there, looking at you. "You're sick, Lombardo." She comments, softly, standing back from the bars. "You're a sick freak. They should have left you locked up."

You can't say a word. Her rejection is ripping your heart out. She's going to make you bleed, before she's done. Those words from her mouth hurt. "You deserve to be locked up. And I don't want anything to do with you."

You look at her. Doesn't she see the pain she's causing? Or does she even care? You get up to face her. "Mommy's little dark-eyed girl. That's all you were, Olivia. Mommy's girl. Always running back home to take care of her, when she didn't do a thing for you."

She raises her chin, stubbornly. She's ignoring you.

"So what the hell did you tell her? What the hell did I do to you! Why'd you run!" Your voice echoes, bouncing off the stone around you.

She steps back, more than a little scared. You can see it in her eyes. "You were a control freak. You wanted to control me, Mike. Make me do what you wanted me to do and nothing else. I'm sorry, but I couldn't live like that."

"I treated you better than most men ever would have! You know that! What the hell did you tell your mother! Did you fill her head with all kinds of crap - lies and stories? Huh? What kind of little sob story did you feed her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I called you, one day, and she picked up. She gave me hell, for hurting you and then she hung up. What the hell did I do to you! What the hell did I ever do to you! I never hurt you."

"You tried to control me. I didn't like that. And maybe I said some things to her because I was angry and she took them seriously. I don't know."

"Then you disappeared. Why'd you do that to me? Disappear like that?"

"I had to move on." She shakes her head.

"I tried to call you, but I couldn't find your number." You look at her, standing in front of a caged you, hands shoved snugly in her pockets. "That was all I wanted, sweetheart. I just wanted some answers."

"I took my number out of the book, after a case went nasty." She replies, quietly.

"Are you married?" You hope to hell she's happy.

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Boyfriend?"

"No. But I don't want anything to do with you." She shudders. "You - you're a pervert. No two ways around it."

"Please." You can't watch her walk away from you again. "No. Don't. You - we can talk."

"I put scum like you away every day." She says, her voice low, her eyes hard. "You're gonna tell me that prison's changed you and you're not going to do it again. Guess what? I know you're lying to me. You still wanna go out and find some poor innocent woman. You don't change. Prison doesn't do a damn thing to you. It just keeps you off the streets. You belong in prison. After you do you thing, I gotta go in and try to pick up the pieces. Talk to the women you rape, and hold their hands as they get poked and prodded. I have to sit there and make them talk about it. Your kind - prison doesn't do a damned thing. You never change."

"Your father was one of my kind." You comment, quietly.

She throws you another hard stare. "My father isn't someone I know. You I know. Actually, I don't know you. The man I knew wasn't a rapist. I don't know who the hell you are."

She turns and walks away, easily. One of the uniformed cops opens the door for her and shuts it with a hard clang. One that echoes through your brain. You just watched her walk away again. You can't believe it. How did you screw it up again?

The pain rips through you again. Damn it. Why can't she just leave you alone? There are other women in the world. Why does she have to torture you like this? Why? Her rejection hurt. It hurt worse than all the years of missing her have.

Hearing her cut you down, telling you what she thinks about you, with that cold, hard look in her eyes hurt. Missing her was easier. Now that you've heard her reject you, the pain's deep in your chest again.

You're not going to sleep tonight. Seeing her like that - cold, hard and distant is giving you chills. She was never like that. Ever. You rub your eyes. She always has to screw you over. Women, in general, always screw you over. That's why you did what got you sent to prison in the first place.

But you don't want to go back. You've had a taste of freedom and you don't want to give it up. You don't want to go back to that boring, repetitious prison lifestyle, where you were little more than a number. You want to be a human being again.