Years later, I'm sitting in Rice To Riches in Manhattan eating rice pudding and kibitzing with my friend Maria. She's the one who hooked me up with Margaret the evil swimsuit model I dated a couple years ago (remind me to write that story sometime). Maria was bragging about hooking up with a firefighter. She also bragged on previous occasions about bedding sailors and bartenders. I had no idea how many of her stories were true but from what I'd seen of her in action I'd say she had game. She'd spend all night whispering dirty things into her target's ear. The beads of sweat would drip off his forehead. Eventually he'd break and she'd lead him off by the collar to a taxi.
"I don't get it." I stuck my spoon into my pudding. "What do women see in firemen?" From what I could tell they weren't good looking or particularly smart.
Maria leaned forward across the table. She's six foot tall. I cowered backward.
"Real simple," she said. "They save lives. Have you ever saved a life?"
"I tried to drown a frog once but then had second thoughts."
"Not the same."