I was at the philharmonic when I first felt her violently rubbing on my thigh from a remote location. The orchestra was tuning up to Bernstein's "Opening Prayer". I'd set my phone on quiet and nodded to the Concertmaster - we'd studied together at Fordham. A series of specific vibrations would tell me when she was calling even if the ringer wasn't on. Technology, Pavlov and the human heart in love. I fanned the tight pages of the program book nervously knowing my eyes were wild surrounded by Meryle Secrest and ladies who lunch in the House of Guerlain and Shalimar. Later I'd burn the bottoms of my feet walking on the black-sand beaches near Kāwhia after falling in love with a Tasmanian Devil. I'd scribbled some things on the back of a floury Balthazar napkin about Pierre Boitard and "Paris Before Man". What can I say? I got carried away, caught up in the Julienne and Rémoulade. I'd met this girl on the beach near Dennisport. She was from D.C. by way of West Harwich - had fled there after the big East Hamptons exodus. She'd worked for the CIA in Sea Rescue as a file clerk and wound up helping develop a shark repellent. They used the repellent during the war. Lathered it like butter on underwater bombs set for the U-boats because sweet curious sharks would sometimes set off the explosives when they bumped into them with their curious little shark noses. She still had sand in her dirty blond on blond hair when she got in my car barefoot and dreamy. It was as if I'd had the whole thing planned. She jumped in, I put the car in drive and "California Dreamin’ " immediately came on the radio. I swear I was waiting for someone to yell "cut". Years later they still haven't.