Just call me Fred

Hey, I'll tell you a story:

I'm not sure if I ever completely explained the day Suzanne and I met a year ago. A year ago, right about this time, actually... I was supposed to meet her for lunch in Hightstown, New Jersey, which is where she used to live. Met her, we had a nice lunch, wandered around, I thought she was just fine, but couldn't see that she (jock, theologian, and wabbit fancier) would be much interested in me (runs when chased, atheist, has many cats).

Anyway, I then drove to Manhattan and met a really nice woman, an actress named Birgit Darby who's been in a bunch of interesting things you might have actually seen, like Sex And The City, someone I found very interesting but ultimately someone I never heard from again.

After that, I was supposed to have a late dinner on the East Side with this woman who seemed very interested in me, but about whom I was doubtful. I drove over to the east side, parked, walked several blocks to Bistro Le Steak on Third Avenue, we met up, had dinner, I walked her back to her apartment on 82nd, where her dog, Petey, immediately pissed on the floor of her studio apartment, so excited was he to meet some new person.

Uh... yeah.

Anyway, after Petey had relieved himself, she walked back down Third Avenue with me to the Volkswagen, and I got in and drove home to Maryland.

Only tonight did I realize that where I parked on Third was half a block from the brownstone where the fictional Holly Golightly, in the person of my mortal idol, Audrey Hepburn, lived in Breakfast At Tiffany's in 1961.

171 East 71st Street.

Nobody knows what it'd cost you to move into that place these days.

The parking was free. I knew that.

And I had already met my Holly. I didn't know that for another few weeks.

Just call me Fred.