Free The Men I Didn't Marry by Janice Kaplan Page A

desk to tackle the stacks of papers and messages that have piled up in my absence. After a few hours, my eyes are blurry from reviewing legal briefs and, exhausted, I finally lie down and take a long nap.
    When I wake up, my office is dark and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s Saturday night and I have nothing to do. Of course I could be flying to Bermuda with Eric in his private plane, so I guess this is my choice. My stomach is growling and I’m hungry. Dumping the eggs on Bill this morning was satisfying but not very filling. I check my watch, and it’s after eight. I go out to my assistant’s desk and flip through the loose-leaf notebook of take-out menus that she’s so neatly put together: Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Indian, Thai, Cambodian, Lebanese, and Canadian. Canadian cuisine? I’m not in the mood for bacon or elk.
    I close the notebook. I don’t really want to sit here alone in an empty office building on Saturday night, anyway. I could go home and check to see if I’ve gotten my new DVDs from Netflix, or I could actually be brave and have dinner in a nice Manhattan restaurant alone. And why not?
    I leave my office and stroll the few blocks over to the Brasserie, where I haven’t been in years. A nice-looking crowd of people is milling around the entrance, and I figure I’ll blend right in. The maître d’ whisks the parties in front of me off to their tables, and when it’s my turn, the young, dewy-skinned receptionist smiles distractedly at me.
    “Please step to the side while you wait for the rest of your party to arrive,” she says sweetly.
    “I am the rest of my party,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
    But she doesn’t get it and looks at me wide-eyed. Since she’s miniskirted, beautiful, and about twenty-three, I’m sure it doesn’t occur to her that anybody eats dinner alone.
    An aggressive man behind me pushes me slightly and calls out to the young miss, “Excuse me, beautiful. We’re all here. Party of four. Can you seat us?”
    “Certainly, sir,” she says, with more courtesy than he deserves, as she passes him on to the maître d’. Then she looks back to me, her problem client.
    “Just
one
? You’re by yourself ?” she asks incredulously.
    “Mmm-hmmm,” I mumble, trying not to draw any attention to myself.
    “All alone?” she asks. Her voice is loud so I’m sure everyone can hear, and her tone of voice suggests that given my pathetic situation, Sally Struthers might want to adopt me.
    I think about explaining that I have a family, was married for a million years, and just canoodled with my ex-boyfriend. But instead I shake my head and sigh deeply.
    “You come into this world alone and you die alone,” I say solemnly.
    She looks bewildered. Customers vying for tables have come up with a lot of persuasive arguments, but mine’s an original. Who else has elevated getting a plate of steak frites into a metaphysical conundrum?
    Amazingly, my ponderous pronouncement works, and a moment later, I’m being escorted to my table. We head to the dining area down a wide, theatrically lit staircase that’s made for dramatic entrances. A wall of videoscreens plays back every arrival, and the restaurant patrons know to glance up every now and then to check out who’s coming. My arrival will really give everyone something to talk about. Celebrities, politicians, and actors walk through all the time, but I’m that great rarity—A Woman Alone.
    And for the rest of the meal, nobody will let me forget it.
    “Waiting for someone?” asks the server, coming over to fill my water glass.
    “Yes,” I say. “Godot.”
    He hesitates. “And when will Mr. Godot be arriving?”
    “Ah, that’s Beckett’s big theoretical question. Aren’t we all waiting for Godot?”
    The waiter shrugs. All he’s waiting for is a good tip, and he’s a little worried that he won’t get one from me.
    I’m ravenous and I scan the menu quickly.
    “I’ll have a mixed salad and the rack of