THE FORTIETH PAGE

You wouldn’t need a Watson to figure out that the girl in the raincoat was my devoted reader. The transfiguration of the (haggard) figure on the stage to the beautiful young woman in the lobby was remarkable.

I don’t know from whence comes the expression “love at first sight”. It hadn’t figured in any novel I had ever read, but it seemed to happen that night in the theater lobby. It made no sense. Here was a stage performance that would never win an Obie and a letter written by an idiot--not the stuff of instant love. But there was a face, the lineaments of desire.

And the miracle of that moment was that what I saw in her, she saw in me. I took off my ski cap, apparently as much a disguise for her as was her dirty raincoat for me. I took off my right glove, as did she.

We walked toward each other, our hands outstretched, but we didn’t shake them; we simply put them together and moved silently through the lobby and out the door.

These were the last silent moments of our relationship, which began with a whimper, and, of course, ended with a bang.

She glanced slyly up at me and I caught her at it. She grinned; I think I smiled. We walked directly to her apartment, as if it had always been the plan.