Angela and Frankie slowly walked down the empty New York sidewalks in the the late afternoon sun, the dirty snow crunching under their feet. Frankie dejectedly climbed into the carriage and slouched down in the seat, feeling miserable. Angela looked at him sadly but said nothing. The carriage lurched forward and they rode in silence for several minutes.

"You know what I hate?" A small, tired voice broke the oppressive silence of the cab. Angela turnedto face Frankie.

"What?" Angela asked gently.

"I hate it when people yell." Frankie said it so quietly he was barely audible. Angela studied him; suddenly, he looked so small, like a frightened child.

"Angela," Frankie met Angela's gaze, "What's wrong with me?" He said it so sincerely. He really means it, Angela thought sadly.

"Who says there's anything wrong with you?" she asked quietly.

"Well, you're a girl, so what's wrong with me?"

"Frankie, there's nothing wrong with you," Angela stated.

"Oh, come on, Angela. Get real. Girls don't like me."

"That's not true. I like you," Angela offered hopefully.

Frankie sighed, exasperated. "You know that's not what I mean. C'mon Ange...just try. Try to think of someone. Just go ahead and try," Frankie taunted.

Angela looked at him reproachfully before turning away and wracking her brain, trying to come up with a time, any time at all, when girls had shown interest in Frankie.

"See. Look at that. You can't think of anything, can you?" Frankie asked, his voice a mixture of anguish and defeat.

Angela looked back up at Frankie and shook her head. "Frankie, I'm sorry. I really am. But what do you want to me to say?" Angela gestured with her hands in frustration.

"I want you to prove me wrong!" Frankie exploded.

"You ARE wrong!" Angela cried.

"No, I'm not!" Frankie said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "All you can do is say I'm wrong; you can't prove anything."