Earlier today, I was waiting outside one of my favorite Manhattan eateries for a business lunch date. Shielding my eyes from a vicious sun glare that seemed to be following me and cursing myself for not being more of a sunglasses-gal--I feel pretentious and phony whenever I don shades--I squinted in search of the person with whom I was to be meeting, sampling his voice against the different people who circulated past me when, suddenly, a gnarled, old man who looked as much like the dark and musty corner of a library as I've seen anyone look like a place before, rushed up to me and asked, "Estelle?" His voice was crackling leaves.
"Um, no. Sorry," I said. He looked at me for a moment longer, confused before sighing and rejoining the steady swells of people, he disappeared.
I wonder what his story was.