Dinner with Wendy

I saw on the web that Wendy Wasserstein died yesterday.

There was a night burried somewhere in my early twenties that I can remember only dimly. In those days, I was working for the architectural office in that building next to the Lipstick building on 53rd street, and after work one night I went to P.J. Clarkes' with my collegue. We sat down in the restaurant and were about to order when she walked in and sat down at our table. Garrulous and maybe a little kookie, she ordered a meal and ate with us; she said her name was Wendy Wasserstein and that she wrote plays. Me and Alex looked at each other and I'm not sure if either of us believed her.

I don't remember what we talked about or what she said; the whole moment was subfused with a surreal quality. Then, after finishing her hamburger, she got up and left as suddenly as she had arrived (neglecting to pay the bill). Maybe it was her, maybe it wasn't -- I guess that doesn't matter. Either it was her, and the episode is just another molecule in the legend that her life became, or it was an insane imposter, inspired by the spirit of Wendy's life to scam a free meal off of two nerdy office workers.