Clearly there is such a thing as too much Laurie Colwin

Years later, she was living in Toronto in a small, clean apartment with an orange tree in a pot. She never sought him out. Their reunion was simply a matter of well engineered chance.

She took her neighbor to a production of Waiting For Godot- and suddenly, there he was. Her old friend, lost in her old scrapbooks, on the stage once more. It alarmed her when he sang at the opening of Act 2- she had forgotten how powerful his voice could be. It brought back so many memories. All those years they spent together, before.

By a happy coincidence, the neighbor was slightly insulted by her intent gaze upon the stage, and departed with an acquaintance whom he chanced to spot during intermission. She did not care. When the play was ended, she stood outside the stage door, smoking for the picture it created, not out of any real enjoyment. The smoke would frame her face and would catch the fluorescent light cast by the lamppost nearby.

He left the theater alone and saw her- not the picture she tried to create, but her. The abstract affection with which he viewed many of the people from his past dissipated instantly. He went to the lamppost, and a new portrait was formed. She threw her cigarette to the sidewalk, and he took her hand.

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