Breakfast at Tiffany's, Sorta

Henry and I were out having breakfast the other day, New Year's Eve morning actually, the last Sunday of 2017. Henry is the guy I have been dating for six months, although his name is not really Henry, but I thought I'd protect his identity for a bit. I've written about Henry before, as an unnamed "friend," which is beginning to get on his nerves, I think. At my age, I feel silly using the word "boyfriend" -- Henry's boyish charm notwithstanding -- so the pseudonym, for now, is my best option. 

This isn't about Henry, though; it's about Sunday breakfast, one of life's greatest pleasures. Well, I suppose it's a little bit about Henry, since we have enjoyed lots of Sunday breakfasts together for six months, but if anything, it's about Sunday breakfast with Donna. Donna is her real name, and I think of her as a friend, a girlfriend even, though I have only met her twice. Well, met her once, then saw her again, to be more accurate. 

Just after Henry and I ordered our eggs last Sunday, I looked up and saw Donna coming in, though I could not for the life of me remember her name. As politely as I could, I pointed her out to Henry. He was skeptical. He hasn't grasped, yet, that I'm rarely wrong. 

A few weeks earlier, on another Sunday at a different breakfast joint, Donna had apologized as she squeezed by our table to settle in on the booth side, next to Henry. She seemed a little self-conscious about her ample tush, which I assured her was much tinier than she imagined. What I noticed first about her was her perky crimped bob and her broad smile. What I noticed, after a few minutes, was that she was eating alone. I can be friendly sometimes, and Henry is pathologically friendly. We struck up a conversation -- about kids, and books, her age -- early seventies, and maybe even the weather. Nothing special, but Donna made an impression. 

I kept my eye on Donna on this New Year's Eve Sunday, building my case for Henry. It's the same lady.  Alone. The perky bob. The warm smile, even with nobody smiling back at her. Henry was on board, and we spent much of our precious breakfast time trying to remember her name. We weren't even close, it turns out, but let's face it, Henry isn't even really Henry. 

When she got up to leave, I told Henry we needed to hurry, because she would not pass by our table. I feel like I know Donna, or at least I know how self-conscious she is about her tush, and I could see the path that would lead her in our direction was narrowed by a large man in a chair pulled way out from his table. I was right, of course; she took the long way around. Henry and I grabbed our coats and intercepted her. She remembered us -- though not our names which, like I said, is not important. 

Donna told us that her husband had died, quite suddenly, 22 years ago. I did the math -- that would have put her in her early fifties. Donna decided, 22 years ago, that she would take herself out to breakfast every morning, because otherwise, she feared, she would spend the rest of her days in bed, curled up in the fetal position. She was, I suppose, desperately trying to fill the void. I don't know what the rest of Donna's day looks like, after breakfast, but I am quite certain that, in filling her own void, she has filled a few others. She delivered hugs to all the waiters on her way out, and she touched our hearts, for the second time. We are determined to find her again, when we go out for our Sunday breakfast.

It was a perfect start to an  auspicious New Year's Eve. Breakfast with Henry. Me, eating what Henry refers to as my "Seymour omelet" -- eggs with lox and grilled onions, my father's favorite. No Bloody Mary, but life's not perfect, and Donna was there to round out the feast.