The baseball cap pulled low on her forehead couldn’t disguise her grief.  We found a quiet café, which provided a welcome intimacy. I held her hand, feeling secure in our silence, until Akira broke it with:  “Brendan – the guy who jumped under the subway train,” she paused to mop a tear with a shaking hand; composing herself, she looked me in the eye and said, “It was my Father.” 

My immediate response was that of all Irish people, a sincere, “I’m sorry for your loss.” She gave me a soft, sad smile and said, “You were sweet, I watched you bless yourself and say R.I.P when you left the train. That's when I knew I really liked you.”

I knew nothing of Akira or her Father. What I did know is that I had affection for this beautiful stranger, whose life I had walked into at a monumental moment.

To explain further I’ll use the tactics of one of my favourite film characters: Basil Exposition from Austin powers. His forte is the plot dump, so here goes – Akira’s Father, Dr Ryan Williams, was due to attend a meeting at the Empire State prior to our arrival that afternoon (unbeknownst to Akira). When he didn’t show, his concerned colleague phoned the hospital and heard of Dr William’s suicide attempt. He left the elevator as I entered, and literally bumped into Akira, giving her the tragic news. Together they jumped in a cab to the Hospital, where Dr Williams was pronounced dead on arrival. His wife (his second, not Akira’s Mother) and son were holidaying and thus arrived the following day. The violent scenes I witnessed at the hospital were due to his wife’s extreme distress and guilt at not being there for her husband; she also resented the bond between Akira and her Father, and her emotions erupted. The scumbag pap caught it all on camera, sold his pics to the The New York Post who tried to concoct some kind of sex scandal with their scant facts.  

The coincidences that to me appeared extraordinary, seemed all too ordinary in Akira’s world. Although her head was probably dealing with the loss of her father rather than the Twilight Zone type narrative in which his suicide occurred. 

I watched as she ordered more coffee from the bar. Her body: long, lithe, athletic, strong; yet I could see it folding. I recognised in her the foetal retreat our bodies take when grief grabs us. It saddened me.

I’d lost my Mother in a farming accent, so I empathised with Akira’s loss. My words soothed her, until her replacement phone interrupted me. Her face darkened as she listened.

It was the New York City Police Department. They had reason to believe her Father may have been pushed – murdered!

Her grief morphed into anger, which exploded on the street. I managed to calm her with action, “Come on Akira, let’s get to the station, you need to find out more.” Her flames dimmed and she said, “Sure. Is your hotel nearby, I could do with taking a shower before I go?”

The thought of being alone with Akira in my room sent a frisson of excitement through me. But my inappropriate ardor vanished as soon as we entered – the chambermaid sat on the bed, her linen trolley parked beside her. I was about to ask her to come back later – as you do – but she nodded towards the door – Harry (zombie man) was standing in front of it.