The guy who lived directly across the way from me on the 15th floor of the building across the street became a kind of - I wouldn’t say friend - more like an acquaintance - although we’d never met, never spoken, never even acknowledged each other’s presence. Like me, he looked to be in his early 30’s, and I decided he was a nice guy, just based on what I’d seen of him before we both pulled down our blinds and retreated into our little cocoons. I know you must be wondering how I formed an opinion of someone with whom I had no apparent connection. But when he’d moved in, I noticed him right away because the apartment had been vacant for a few months, so it was obvious when there was activity in there again. It was a Saturday, and I was home scurrying around in my down slippers and and a scruffy sweatshirt and fleece bottoms that I couldn’t imagine ever giving up (which may account for why I was still a single girl in New York) and I noticed the plants first, and then the guy installing hooks.”Plants,”  I thought. “Cute guy, sensitive - he likes plants - he must be gay.”  A week or so later I noticed he was setting the table for dinner - 3 places. Three? He had, as it turned out, invited an older couple over, that I decided must be his parents. Nice guy.  Any questions about his sexual orientation were (forgive the pun) laid to rest over the next several weeks. He had a couple of different women over, and if my knowledge of body language was still any good, they were definitely not family members. I decided that this was a guy I wanted to meet. We had a lot in common. He was obviously dating, and I obviously should have been dating. I’d certainly dated enough guys for worse reasons than that. I decided that the direct approach was best, so I tucked a twenty dollar bill into my coat - my goodcoat, just incase I ran straight into him while I was executing my plan. I  self-consciously gave the doorman the remuneration that I’d stashed in my coat pocket and sheepishly told him my intentions and somehow convinced him that I was on the up-and-up. He sang. I had the guy’s name and apartment number faster than you could say “grease the doorman’s palm.”I went to a nice florist where I agonized over what to buy and finally decided on a plant that would convey something about me.  My card read, “A Wandering Jew for a wandering Jew (I had already seen a menorah in his living room) from a wandering Jew. Your friend across the way.” I had it delivered and figured one of two things would happen.  Either he’d call or his blinds would remain perpetually down. He actually called. It turned out that my preconceived judgments were correct. We went out for a few months, which meant one set of lights was usually dark. Then, as sweetly as it started, we both met other people (talk about perfect timing.)  Neither one of us moved. We just  occasionally waved to each other across the way.  Then, one day I came home from work and the plants in the window were gone.