Written in the stars
I worked on the 65th floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
He worked at a tiny café in the basement.
I worked 9-5 then went home to my mom.
He worked 8-4, then ran downtown for English classes before heading to the Brooklyn apartment he shared with four guys.
One day, the receptionist in my office asked if I had seen, “that cute guy” at the café. I hadn’t.
The rest is history.
Recently, I realized (31 years later) that she never went with me to point out “the cute guy.” I went alone, our eyes met, and we knew.