Breakfast at Manny's

I cursed myself for my stupidity. Thanks to my oh-so-clever little games, I didn't know Deirdre's real name, didn't know where she lived, didn't have her phone number nor any other way to contact her. "Oh, God," I realized, "she has no way to find me either!"

The next week was hellish. Every morning I went to Manny's in the futile hope that Deirdre would suddenly appear. I carefully arranged my schedule at the office so I could be standing outside the little boutique hotel at the appointed time, just in case the magic taxi would appear with her inside. I even went by the Plaza Hotel in my desperation.

My vigil proved fruitless; every failure seemed to make things worse. The hole in my heart now was bigger than the one when Megan had left, and this time burying myself in my work provided no relief.

The following week one of the senior partners strolled into my office. "Have you got a minute?" he asked. "A neighbor of mine, Martin Sizemore, has come into the office. He and his wife are looking for some legal counsel. I'd like to help him, but I've got that big trial coming up. Would you see what you can do for them?"

"Of course," I said. Junior partners always agree to help out their senior partners.

I slipped on my suit jacket and we walked down the corridor to one of the conference rooms. My partner opened the door and I stepped inside -- only to stop short in shock. There on the other side of the table was Deirdre's husband! He recognized me too and glared at me.

My partner was oblivious to our reactions as he made the introductions, and Mr. Sizemore and I warily shook each other's hand in a charade of social nicety. While my partner made polite chitchat, I began to gather my wits, and suddenly a surge of adrenaline swept over me. Mr. and Mrs. Sizemore -- that meant Deirdre was here! At last she and I could reconnect and settle things with her husband once and for all.

As if he could read my mind, my partner asked the question I'd wanted to raise: "Where's Mrs. Sizemore?"

"She's in the ladies' room," Martin Sizemore told him. "She should be back in a minute."

"Fine," my partner replied. "Well, I'll leave you in Jacob's capable hands," and he left the conference room.

Sizemore and I stared at each other, and once again I kept silent. This time he did so as well. Just as the tension threatened to become unbearable, the door opened and in walked an attractive but rather plumpish woman with brunette hair cut short. I stared at her in confusion. When she said nothing, I rudely demanded, "Who are you?"

She was obviously offended by my tone. "I'm Sara Sizemore, of course" she said huffily. "Who are you?"

Martin Sizemore was looking at the two of us in surprise. "You don't know her?" he asked me suspiciously.

"I've never seen her before in my life!" I said fervently.

Sara Sizemore was becoming vexed. "What's going on?" she demanded. "Who is this person, Martin, and how do you know him?"

Neither of us answered, we just stood there gawking at each other.

Finally I knew what I had to do. "Mr. Sizemore, would you come with me? Mrs. Sizemore, please excuse us for a minute."

She gaped at me in incomprehension that was only heightened when her husband walked to the door and followed me out. I walked down the hall to the senior partner's office with Sizemore following cautiously behind. I think he expected me to slug him at the first opportunity.

I walked into my partner's office and Sizemore came in apprehensively with me. "Something has come up," I said, "and I won't be able to represent the Sizemores after all. There was a legal issue that involved them some time ago. I was with my former firm at the time, and I represented the other party in that matter. As you can imagine, the Sizemores would find it rather awkward to work with me under the circumstances."

My partner looked a little confused, but he muttered, "Of course, Jacob, of course. Martin, I'll find someone else to help you."

Before I left I shook hands with Martin Sizemore again. He gave me a look that was a strange mixture of confusion, apology and relief. I never saw him again.

I didn't go back to my office; instead I told my secretary that I had a last-minute appointment outside the building and caught a cab home. Once there, I collapsed on my sofa and stared at the wall. I felt like when you wake from a dream that's so real you're not sure what's imagination and what's memory.

I hate having breakfast at Manny's now. I can't stand sitting at the same table, seeing the same menu, watching strangers walk through the door looking for a seat. Everything about that place evokes vivid, painful memories that tear at my heart and befuddle my mind. It's torture, but what else can I do? Someday Deirdre might walk in.

This story was inspired by a segment from This American Life on National Public Radio.