“Excuse me,” he said. “Sorry for asking, but you look somewhat familiar. Do you mind my asking what it is you do?”
“I’m a writer,” I said.
“Ah yes,” he said. “I do know who you are. You’re that famous single woman who writes about single women and, er . . .”
“Sex,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. He opened another magazine. He seemed kind of shy.
“Excuse me,” I said. “But you look kind of familiar. Do you mind my asking what it is you do?”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m a businessman.”
“I knew that.”
“You did? How?”
“Your choice of reading material,” I said.
Well, we did get to talking after that. And we discovered that we had practically the same birthday and had grown up in towns with exactly the same name—Glastonbury—although his Glastonbury was in England, and mine was in Connecticut.
“Well,” he said, “it’s not enough on which to base a relationship, but it’s a good beginning. Would you like to have dinner tonight?”
We did have dinner that night. And eventually, one thing did lead to another. And now all I can say is that my friends are very happy for me, and my mother has been bugging me nonstop about flower arrangements.
But that, of course, is another story.