A Fish on the Hook

Before we turn to fishing, I want to note that the artist Louise Bourgeois died yesterday at age 98. There will be a lot written about her and her art, but how many can say they dated her son? Me, that's who. And met him online, too.

He was a very nice man, and a major hoot. Quirky, interesting, completely in his own world, scattered in his attention. He brought with him as Exhibit A a book he'd written with his deceased wife, full of beautiful photographs they'd taken of adobe dwellings in Africa and Asia (at least that's my memory of it -- it was years ago). It quickly became clear that he had lost the great love of his life, the woman who had sustained him, and he was longing for someone as much like her as possible. I've run into this before with widowers who had been happy in their marriage. We got along just fine, and as we hugged goodbye before he stepped into the car driven by a friend who was his personal assistant, he claimed that he would call me, but we both understood I wasn't going to be the next Mrs. Bourgeois. Still, I didn't feel it was a wasted afternoon, as I usually do. If only they could all be like that.

On to the fish: This is C, the man from Westchester, who is going to be in Grand Central Station anyway this afternoon, so is squeezing me in for a cup of coffee. I know almost nothing about him except that he's not fond of driving to Manhattan, though he has the advantage of not turning me off with his phone conversation. However, that could be because we bypassed the phone and arranged this by email. We'll see. Your faithful reporter will let you know whether this particular fishie will be thrown back into the sea or might be a candidate for further tasting.