9/11 fluttered through my mind. My thoughts were interrupted by a man’s voice close by, a fellow passenger, “Relax folks. 12-9’s the code for ‘man under’ we hit a jumper, a suicide. The drivers radioing for help – the poor guy has to go inspect the mess, he aint gonna have a happy Halloween, that’s for sure.”

At home, suicide is rare and big news, here, Akira informed me, it's quite common (especially during holidays) and inconvenient. The driver's voice came back on the tanoy, this time sounding composed, in control; he instructed us to make our way towards the front two carriages. I wasn’t enjoying my inaugural subway experience.  

It was a relief to step back on the platform. The train doors closed and it backed slowly into the tunnel, releasing the grizzly remains to the paramedics waiting on the platform. I blessed myself discreetly and said a silent prayer in honour of the unfortunate soul who’d interrupted our journey. Akira suddenly stopped dead, looked at the disappearing train and exclaimed with open arms, “SHIT - MY BAG!” 

“You know what Brendan, I feel kinda liberated,” she said as we reached street level. She carried her wallet on her, and would survive without her blackberry for the day. “I know what you mean, It’s incredible how much these things rule our lives,” I said, while switching off my own phone.  “It’s you, me, and the city Brendan.” We braced ourselves against the cold and headed off to find breakfast.   

As we turned a corner a man lurched towards me; a huge gash sliced diagonally through his face, his shirt and suit heavily blood splattered. He clung onto a briefcase, the black leather ripped and war-torn, evidence of the battle he’d fought to keep hold of it. I pulled away from Akira, my natural instinct to help a human in need taking over. She pulled me back with a jolt and a giggle. The injured man also laughed, his merriment at odds with his injuries – what the fuck's going on here?  “His face was all cut up; did you see it?” I asked. She smiled knowingly, while nodding her head,  “No – but It’s Halloween honey, we take it seriously here. I guess he’s just an office clown who’s goofed up for the day.” 

I was in culture shock. Grown ‘business’ men dressing up as mugging victims for Halloween, the idea didn’t compute. As we settled into a cosy place called the ‘Cupping room café’ in the Soho district, Akira informed me he was probably a zombie, “They’re so IN this season,” she said with a sarcastic smile. She chuckled at my miss-reading of the situation, while I marveled at the skill and creativity he'd applied to his disguise. “I’d be sectioned for sure if I turned up at the creamery to milk the cows done up like a fecking Zombie.” I said, while scanning the menu. 

“What you having?” I asked, needing direction. “I’m gonna go for the pancakes, with syrup, bacon and a ...” she paused, before adding... “a chai latte.” I smiled, “And I’ll have the same.” Akira cracked up laughing again when she saw me staring with bemusement when she gave our order to a polite and incredibly beautiful Vampire. 

Breakfast turned into brunch which all too soon became lunch. Akira ordered a green salad and a glass of Evian water. I had the same but with a main course of macaroni cheese. It was delicious, comforting and warm, just like my companion. We'd talked non-stop since our arrival at the café. I told her all about my girlfriend leaving me, she listened with empathy rather than sympathy.  

You see – Caroline, my ex, was considered a catch in my small town. More so when she began entering beauty contests resulting in her being crowned Miss Ireland. A rural dairy farmer who still lived with his Ma and Da wasn't good enough for a potential Miss world, “You have no ambition Brendan,” were her parting words. And so I was dumped by Ireland’s most lovely lady, eliciting unwanted sympathy from not just the townsfolk, but the whole country. I became news. Every time Caroline appeared in the papers with a male celebrity, photographers were rushed to the farm for a picture of Ireland's saddest man.  

My story beguiled her – My farming life charmed her. 

Akira’s life was the pole opposite of mine; the eldest of 3 children, born and raised in Brooklyn to African American parents. She flew the nest at 16, and at 21 had cracked the Big Apple, becoming the Director of one of its biggest fashion PR companies. 

Her story fascinated me – her life ‘The American Dream’ seduced me. 

“Do you no what Brendan, I’ve only been to the top of the Empire State once, when I was a kid – can you believe that?” The building fascinated me, as my father regaled my sister and I when youngsters with tales of how his great grandfather helped build the American icon. “Oh my God Akira, let’s go. My Great Grand Daddy built it you know,” I said with pride. 

As we walked, her arm linked casually in mine, I gave her a potted history of the Empire State. She was an attentive listener and I an enthusiastic storyteller. She laughed when I told her how in 1979 a lady called Elvita Adams entered the building with the intention of terminating her life by jumping from the 86th floor. She jumped, only to be blown back onto the 85th. Her lack of suicidal success gave Elvita a new lease of life and she lived happily ever after. 

We entered the magnificent art-deco foyer of the man made megalith. I was being tour guide to a born and bred New Yorker; the juxtaposition beguiled her. “This is so weird, I’m learning about my city from an Irish country boy – I like it Brendan, tell me more.” I began the story of the plane, which crashed into the north side of the building in 1945 – but I became distracted by the sight of a familiar figure amongst the milling crowds of tourists and office workers – that man again...

...him done up like a zombie. His eyes met mine as he entered an elevator. He was mouthing something to me, “What?” I mouthed back. The door closed.  “What is it Brendan?” asked Akira, noticing my distraction, “I just saw that zombie man again, in the lift, didn’t you see him?” Her reply was nonchalant, “Us New Yorkers never notice each other Brendan.”   

We joined the line to purchase our tickets for the observation deck on the 102nd floor. Out of the blue Akira asked, “Do you still love your ex?” I didn’t even think about my answer, in fact I was still trying to work out what the zombie man was saying when the words just came, “No. I still fancy her, what man wouldn’t.” This was the first time I’d ever thought about my real feelings for Caroline. I continued, “I liked being seen with her, Jeepers that sounds really bad doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t. I understand. I work in fashion. Sometimes we ‘wear’ people, to make us look good, be envied by are friends, all that kinda bull.” I suspected she was speaking from experience, and found myself thinking enviously of all the handsome suitors lining up to date her. How could I compete?

We were swept along by a sudden surge as we neared the elevator doors.  I was engulfed with a strong feeling of closeness to Akira and instinctively kissed her forehead; she returned an affectionate smile.

As the crowd pushed towards the open door, we became separated and I found myself inside the lift without her. “I’ll see you up there Brendan,” she shouted, before the doors closed and the lift shot upwards with a stomach turning speed.

I waited for her. The elevator arrived, dispatching another load of viewers, but no Akira. She wasn’t on the next elevator either. Maybe she’d gone straight to the 102nd floor?

I raced around the tiny enclosed space of the 102nd floor, three times. She wasn’t there. I called out her name. People looked at me as if I were mad. I’ll go back to the 86th floor, she’s probably there, looking for me. She wasn’t.

I pushed back into the lift, pissing people off with my forced, slightly desperate intrusion. She’s probably waiting for me in the foyer. I relaxed a little for the short descent.

I ran from the elevator, scanning the bustling crowd on tip-toes, searching for her smile. “AKIRA!” I shouted at the top of my voice. Hundreds of faces turned to look at me. But hers wasn’t among them.