“Almost 20 years.” Eunice’s eyes filled with tears. “I met him in 1941. He was a lawyer, too. Never liked it much, though, which kept him from being very successful. I met him at an old bookstore in the city. I was there because it was December and I couldn’t afford my heating bill. I was just trying to keep warm. My best girlfriend, Mabel Wainright, worked as a cashier there. He came in asking whether or not the store had any books about writing theater plays. Mabel said, ‘See that lady over there? She’s a dancer. Ask her if she’s seen any.’ She figured that since I had spent most of the day there already, that if they had such a book, I’d know about it.”
“Did he find a book?”
“Yes, but he asked me out for coffee instead. He couldn’t afford both. He told me about a play he was writing about finding love where you least expect it. I was mesmerized.”
“What did he know about the theater?”
“Not a damn thing. He didn’t even know the format that a script was supposed to be written in. But it was his baby.”
“What about his lawyer job?”
“He wasn’t really making ends meet anyway. He decided he’d rather be a poor playwright than a poor and miserable lawyer.”
“Did he ever finish it?”
“After he met me. He said I was the one who showed him what true love was, which made him able to write about it.”
“That’s a real romantic story. He sounds like a great guy.”
“He had passion, that’s for sure.”
“Did anything ever happen with his play?”
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