This morning: rainy, cold, drear. Sitting in the coffee shop window, I was feeling smug that I didn’t have to hustle to work like all the Rick Springfield mofos hastening by. One of the coffee jerks — twentysomething, hugely pregnant, more blowsy than blooming — waddled outside, followed by a small young man with bright, dark eyes. They stood, kissing gingerly for a surprisingly long time as everyone streamed around them. I couldn’t stop gawking. So little apparent passion, and yet the kiss dragged on forever, tongues flashing and everything. Eventually, they disentangled and I went back to my crossword. An hour later, on the subway platform not a half-block from the coffee shop, I saw the small man again. With a far greater urgency, he was kissing someone else — a slight, pretty blond girl. The kind of girl who’d be your basic nightmare if you had eight months of baby sacked in your gut.