A bracing wind off the Hudson. The rattle of a broken radiator. Lentils and sausage at the corner of Mercer and Prince. Night falls before the office door is closed. No more lovely dinners on the sidewalk.
Not AL FRESCO.
AL FREDDO.
WINTER.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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