“Don’t I know you?” asked John Westmont, tapping my left. I looked at him with what I hoped was a quizzical expression.
“You’re the lady from Bloomingdale’s, right?” He looked at his feet to hide the flush in his cheeks. “I never got your name.”
I smiled to ease his embarrassment. “I never gave it to you. I’m Andie.”
“Just Andie?”
“That’s right,” I said coyly.
“Okay, then,” he replied, reaching out his hand. “I’m just John.”
As I took his hand to shake it I felt a little jolt, and it wasn’t coming from the power cords. “How did your wife like the bag?”
“She exchanged it, I think. Well, she said she was going to…” He paused, then said gently, “I thought it was a great choice though, really. Thank you.”
I smiled, feeling a little regret. Now that my plan was working it felt like a really bad idea. Just what this man needs is another woman lying to him. I’ll say “Nice seeing you again” and leave, I thought. This couldn’t go anywhere worth going.
“How long is your wait?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just here for the new cord,” I said.
“That’s good.” He smiled. “From the way my computer’s acting, I’m guessing I’ll have a bit of time to kill.”
“You’re not going to leave it and come back?” I asked, wanting him to say yes but also wanting him to say no.
“Actually, I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to—take the walking tour of Grand Central.”
I lit up. I couldn’t help it. I had always wanted to take the tour of Grand Central too. I used to ask Derek all the time, but he thought it was too touristy. And then the last few years I hadn’t had anyone to go with. It definitely seemed like the kind of thing that was better to do with someone.
“I’ve always wanted to do that!” I blurted out.
His Genius guy arrived just in time with an introduction and the standard “What seems to be the problem today?”
I saw this as my chance to get away—I really needed to just leave this man alone—so I reined in my enthusiasm and said in a much calmer tone, “Good luck. Nice seeing you again.”
As I turned to leave he gently grabbed my forearm. “Wait—please,” and to the technician, “The wheel is spinning all the time, and the last time this happened you had to hold it hostage for three hours.” He turned his laptop to face the technician, who took a look, pressed a few buttons, asked John to insert a password, and then voilà.
“Come back at four and it’ll be good as new, or close to it.”
“Great, thank you!” John stood and faced me.
“Come with me—you should come,” he said sweetly.
I would love to, I thought as I declined.
“It starts in an hour. We can have lunch at the Oyster Bar first. Go on, say yes.”
I had never done that either, but had always wanted to. I thought about the afternoon that awaited me if I said no. I would leave here, jump on the subway, and spend the rest of my day lying on the couch with my dear friends Don and Betty Draper. Lucky for me, my divorce coincided with the advent of binge television-watching. Now you could justify a lazy day spent in front of the TV watching Mad Men as an exercise in staying culturally relevant.
Or I could just say yes. I say it every morning when the man at the corner deli asks if I want milk in my coffee. I stopped making a whole pot after the divorce. It seemed wasteful.
“Yes,” I said.
“Fantastic!” he replied, adding, “My wife is usually the one of us to make new friends.” He’s got that right, I thought.
Lunch at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Terminal is a scene out of another era. I half expected Don Draper to sit down right next to us and ask for a light for his Lucky Strike. Countertops loop around the perimeter, with art deco tables in the middle. We grabbed the only two seats left at the counter in front of the open kitchen. Between the view of the chefs shucking oysters and the commuters stopping at the takeout counter behind it, there would be no shortage of distraction. We each had a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder and then shared a big plate of oysters. Their aphrodisiac powers seemed to work wonders on John, as he told me in great detail of the love he had for his wife. He added that he sensed something was wrong lately, and when he said it I felt a twinge in my heart. Poor John. He seemed to realize that he had opened up a little too much and that maybe it was odd. He apologized, saying, “There’s something about spilling your woes to a stranger that feels tremendously cathartic. Want to try it? Tell me about your life.”