September 15, 1989

One of the most pleasurable things in the world is strolling through the park in late summer or early autumn, relishing a warm breeze and wondering how this amazing three-month reprieve from the chilly air can only happen so infrequently, and for so short a time.

I know what lies ahead of me. I know that soon enough, I'll have to buy a heater and keep warm by draping my coat over me as I relax in my living room. I know I'm going to have to buy leather gloves and a hat and a scarf, because when I don't do that, I feel fake. Cheap. As if I'm not a lawyer and can't afford the better things. And I know that my co-workers and clients watch me, wondering where this impostor came from and demanding to know why I can't at least dress and act like them.

It isn't that I don't have the money. I do. I just don't like to spend it. Not because I'm a miser, but because I don't want to feel like I am living in the lap of luxury, growing accustomed to these comforts and benefits only to be deprived of them one day. I act lower-middle class even when I am not, because it is safer and prevents me from being let down, should one day in the future I lose my job and end up in a rat-infested apartment on East Ninth.

Why East Ninth?

I know someone who lives there.

She comes out of the apartment every day, sometimes choosing to descend the fire escape stairs rather than those leading to the front door. She walks with a manila envelope nearly every day, if not a manila folder, and has wildly different outfits and hairstyles for every day of the week. It's not so much a reflection on her personality, I suspect, as it is on the various different roles she auditions for; occasionally, should we happen to walk in the same direction (not that I'm stalking her, because I am not), I see her duck into a minuscule theater, her shoulders heavy enough to weigh down her entire body as she takes in a deep breath and enters. I wish her "good luck" under my breath sometimes, and occasionally she hears, and she thanks me.

Today I am actually going to an East Village theater, as it opened only recently and one of my friends at a neighboring firm to mine asked if I could deliver paperwork, since she had a meeting at the time that the forms were due. It is my lunch hour, so I consent to do so, and I haul the stack of papers over to the theater without much regret. After all, she is here today, in this very theater.

I enter. I spot her immediately, on the stage, in the middle of an audition. Immediately, I know why she tries out for so many different performances. Her voice is amazing, and she is beautiful, and the only flaw in her performance is the fact that her face screws up as she sings, as she tries to soak in all the emotion she possibly can, reacting naturally to a theatrical situation. I can see how this would be a problem for a director, but still – were it my play, I wouldn't hesitate to cast her as the lead.

After a few minutes of chaste conversation with the theater's manager, I am struck by an impulse. There are twenty-seven minutes left in my lunch hour – why not enjoy them? So I settle myself down in a seat in the audience and watch as she dances alongside others, the director scratching notes down on everyone's performances as toes clap against the stage. She stands out in my eyes, but then again, I am intentionally looking for her, and I cannot quite manage to watch the performance as a nonjudgmental spectator, because that is not what I am. I am watching her shining, and enjoying myself.

Twenty-six and a half minutes later, I decide I'm going to be late enough as it is, and get out of the seat with every intention of leaving, going to work, and making excuses about the tremendous line in some place supposedly serving "fast" food. As I get to my feet, however, something stops me. A single girl onstage swivels her head to face me, meets my eyes, and slowly jerks her chin downward.

Certain of her intended message, I sit.

The audition lasts another fifteen minutes, by which time I will be inexcusably late for work, but something compels me about this girl's performance, and I cannot bear to leave. Every time I stand, there she is again, looking straight at me, silently saying No. Not yet. Wait.

I've never been one to wait, to tell the truth. The time stretches by like winter after a groundhog sees his shadow, but at last, the actresses are dismissed, water flowing into their mouths from bottles of Poland Springs and sweat wiped across their faces. I am speechless. The pristine perfection of a second ago is gone, and in its place is the harsh reality: these women are actresses, struggling young actresses with rough apartments in this shady area of the city. And for some of them, acting isn't so much a passion as it is a whim, a desire to find some way to shine, a wild stab in the dark.

For her, I know, it is a destiny.

"Hey," she says, sidling up beside me. "I'm Maureen."

"Joanne," I reply. "I'm – I'm Joanne. Jefferson. I see you in the mornings." I say this because it is true, and because I know – I think – that a star like her could never remember the likes of me, a lawyer with money but no goals in life like hers.

She smiles. "I know," she tells me, and like any good actress, she keeps my gaze while she talks. "I'm there, you know. When you see me in the mornings."

I blush and neglect to share my reasoning, because she would either scoff it off or consider me a stalker. Either way, I'm screwed, so I keep my mouth shut until I can think of something better to say. When an idea does come to me, I say, "You did really well."

She laughs. "Really?"

"Yeah. I loved the part where you were, um, dancing."

With a smile, she points out, "I was dancing the whole time."

My cheeks now resembling cranberry sauce, I mumble, "With the, um, with the twirling."

She snickers. "The tango?"

"That's the one," I confirm. The truth is, I've known how to tango since I was nineteen. But she doesn't need to know that. Sometimes it's good to let them act like they know everything. An ego boost can go a long way when it comes to getting a date.

She extends her hand to me. "You wanna go get some lunch?"

"My lunch hour ended – I mean, will end in an hour," I answer, lying through my teeth. She knows it too, but I don't think she cares.

"So…?"

I take her hand. "Sure," I say, and we head for the nearest diner – the Moondance, a secret love of mine. I know that I will be paying for this, and possibly for any dates to come, but I don't care. Is this a date?

I am not entirely sure until she kisses me.