Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

"And can I get your phone number?" I ask.

Norah pulls her hand out of mine to reach into Salvatore and take out my phone.

"Here," she says, handing it over. "It's already programmed in."

I know it's totally uncool to do it, but I ask, "Do you want mine?"

"Call me," she says. And then when I don't do anything, she adds, "Right now."

So I open up my phone and check out the directory. I see Norah's added some commentary of her own-Tris's number is now labeled That Bitch. Norah's, however, isn't under Norah. But when I see Salvatore's name, I know who I'm calling.

I dial. Her ring tone springs to life.

"Hello?" she answers, not two feet away from me.

"Can I please speak to Salvatore?" I ask.

"I'm afraid he can't come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?"

I'm looking at Salvatore now, and I'm realizing that I gave him up a long time ago, that in my mind he's already hers.

"Tell him I hope he likes his new home," I say.

Norah looks at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Thanks."

We both hang up and hold hands again. We walk through Union Square, stepping over the detritus of the Saturday-night revelers. We pass the Virgin Megastore, the Strand, the old Trinity Church. We walk down Astor, past the skate-punks' cube, over to St. Marks Place, where clubgoers stumble through daylight. Down Second Avenue until we reach Houston. I can tell she's tired now, too. We are using all of our energy for this walking, for this near-silent twoliness. For the watching of everything. For watching over each other.

When we get to Ludlow, I remember the song I began to write, in an hour that seems like weeks ago now. Can so much really happen in a night? The song was never really over, but now I have the ending-I don't know how I'll phrase it, but it will involve our returning, it will take in the strange pink light and the Sunday-morning quiet. Because the song is us, and the song is her, and this time I'm going to use her name. Norah Norah Norah-no rhymes, really. Just truth.

I shouldn't want the song to end. I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a single song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.

I know Norah would love for me to sing her the song, right here on Ludlow Street. But I'll wait for next time. Because I know there will be a next time. I was looking forward to next time the minute I met her. Throughout the night, I've been looking forward to next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. I know this is something.

I can see Jessie sitting safely at the curb, ready to take us home.

"We're almost there," Norah says.

I stop us. We turn to each other and kiss again. Here on Ludlow Street. In the new day.

My heartbeat accelerates. I am in the here, in the now. I am also in the future. I am holding her and wanting and knowing and hoping all at once. We are the ones who take this thing called music and line it up with this thing called time. We are the ticking, we are the pulsing, we are underneath every part of this moment. And by making the moment our own, we are rendering it timeless. There is no audience. There are no instruments. There are only bodies and thoughts and murmurs and looks. It's the concert rush to end all concert rushes, because this is what matters. When the heart races, this is what it's racing toward.

20. NORAH

I can keep the jacket, I can keep the jacket, lalalalalalalala, Nick loves me, or at least he really likes me, lalalalalalalala, Salvatore and I are so happy, this jacket will only be dry cleaned, no inferior detergent shall ever besmirch it, lalalalalalalalala.

Here we are, back in Jessie. Yugo! Lalalalalalalala.

I'm sitting in the passenger seat next to Nick and it's just like before when we sat side by side in this car, except not. I'm no longer vague as to whether I even want to be spending my time with this person, in this "vehicle," but Jessie, like earlier, has doubts about whether to allow me to be Jessie's Girl. Jessie, once again, is not starting. Nick turns the key and floods the accelerator and even says a couple prayers, but no, Jessie ain't putting out.

Nick stops the key motion and turns to look at me. "Shit," he says.

I can't help but laugh at the sight of him, rumpled clothes, his hair spiked from the rain and the mad earlier rummage of my hands through it, eyes glazed over from the fallout of lust and fatigue, jaw jutted in frustration with Jessie. I tell him, "You look like that Where's Fluffy song, 'You Have That Just Fucked Look, Yoko,'" which I believe was on the breakup desolation playlist Nick made for Tris, and in my opinion is the band's best song from their pre–Evan E. days, when Fluffy's drummer was a guy called Gus G., who left them in a fit of rage when Lars L. dumped the band's manager, who also happened to be Gus G.'s girlfriend.