The one. And so, she waits.And so, I wait. And wonder about her. How finding that story stuck in the pages of a book I examined in the New York Public...Library archive room led me to her. How random life can be, filled with microtomed slices of coincidences, that, if compiled, make the difference between a love story and no story whatsoever.I lie here and think about her question. Devastation and happiness. And wonder about how I ever met her. And deep down I wonder if I wish I never had. There. Almost immediately there was a knock at the door, so I walked back and opened it. There she stood with an embarrassed look, a bottle of club soda, and a towel.We both stood speechless before she quietly spoke, “I am so sorry. Let’s see if we can get this cleaned up.”I managed a slight grin and acknowledged, “it was my fault, I should have locked the door.” We both managed an embarrassed small laugh.At that point, I gained my composure enough to look directly at her. She was wearing a sports. More

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