Of course, Mrs. Lonelyman would be married. She's been married for seven years to Mr. Lonelyman, widely handsome, devastatingly successful, and not for a single weekend for the rest of their entire lives will either of them be -- alone.  But Wednesdays when you see Mrs. Lonelyman at the deli on her lunch, she’ll be sitting as usual by herself at a table for two under a poster-painting of Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night, and you, Mr. Foolhardy, will think to yourself, "By God, a woman that beautiful should never have to eat alone," which is a farce really, for though he appears absent, the ghost of Mr. Lonelyman always looms in the opposing chair, and though he never takes a lunch hour from the firm, dinner will find them inseparable.

But you look at the way her bare legs cross and the pleats of her gray skirt fall above her knee; how black cashmere hugs each contoured rib; how she sips Diet Coke leaving pink lip prints on a transparent straw; how shreds of lettuce fall lightly on wax paper. Hear the silent sips -- the soft patter of lettuce?  No?  Not close enough?

You'll never be. 

But still you see yourself, Mr. Foolhardy, one breezy night, a French cafe, blues and grays all over, dim streets, cobblestone, cool and quiet, but by God, the stars are shimmering like they're on an ocean, and the candles near you are warm and alive, and you know, should you look closely enough, there within two hazel eyes, reflected in those fathomless pupils, there will be a pinpoint, a candle's glint, another flickering star only one fortunate companion across the table will ever see.

No, she'll never be alone.  Not among the terrace, not in the night, nor beneath canvas awning, nor behind candle flame, but here -- in the deli.  And every day is Wednesday, Mr. Foolhardy, for the rest of your life.