It was like a scene like a Woody Allen movie. We were sitting in an Italian restaurant off 35th Street and 5th Avenue – a nice little place with soft lighting and white tablecloths and fine linen napkins. Waiters stood silently in the shadows awaiting our every move – to remove an empty plate, or fill a water glass, or add more cheese to an already towering salad or entree.
A superb dinner of various dishes, we were stuffed and were enjoying our second (third?) glass of wine, when we couldn’t help but overhear the conversation at the table next to us.
Two men, dressed in suits, although the jackets had long been thrown onto the chairs next to them, and shirtsleeves rolled up, neckties pulled loose, were deep in conversation.
“How could she do this to me” said the larger man of the two. His friend was thinner, smaller, but no less invigorated by his question. Long past thirty and soon waving goodbye to 40, they were deeply entrenched on the circumstances of the situation at hand.
“I know!” he answered, taking a long, last drink from his wine glass, draining it in one final swallow before returning his full attention to his beleaguered colleague.
“I mean” the larger man bemoaned “this is the woman who said she loved me with everything in her being!”
“Yes!” affirmed the friend. “She even wrote to you from the hospital when she was in a straight jacket!”
“No, wait” he corrected. She must have had somebody write it for her” he replied, satisfied that there must have been a conspiracy,
Only in Manhattan.
God I love New York.