It is 7:50 a.m. on a sunny hump-day morning in New York City, and I am stopped at my neighborhood banana stand relentlessly protesting to the vendor in an effort to buy just two bananas rather than the required "bunch."  He is not letting up to save his soul...and neither am I. Now I'm trying for just three bananas. I'm going away tomorrow and what on earth am I going to do with a five banana bunch, which is the smallest I can find.  A man comes up behind me and in a damp French accent declares, "I will split your bananas with you." I turn around to find a man, who I estimate to be in his early-sixties and about 5'2, standing behind me smiling. 
"Are you sure?" I ask to make sure that he actually likes bananas and isn't just using my desperate banana situation as an opportunity to prey on me.

"Yes, I am also buying bananas and need only three," he assures me.  A banana split? Marvelous!

"Oh my god, thank you sir," I reply politely, relieved that I don't have to carry a whole bunch of bananas through Penn Station and on the LIRR to Great Neck, the end point of my Wednesday morning commute.  He says that he is happy to buy a pretty lady a couple bananas, but assures me that he is not making a pass. His wife and son are currently in Paris as his wife is on assignment writing a piece for Vogue.  And with that, he has my undivided attention.  (If this bit of information was intentionally used as a lure, then: a) It totally worked, and b) He is brilliant.)  As it turns out, he actually is brilliant...

"Where are you from?" I blurt out because my curiosity cannot contain itself for more than 2.2 minutes.
"Casablanca, originally," he replies, "but I have lived all over France and moved to the states about thirty years ago."

"What do you do?" I ask, conscious that this is my third question. You should always ask a man what he does third so as not  to sound rude if he is indeed very successful and to be sure you haven't wasted much time conversing with him should you find yourself unsatisfied with his response. Someone taught me this.

"I am an artist. I have had a studio in Soho, just down the street, for twenty-five years," he explains, pointing west down Grand Street. 

"Really? I will have to come by and check it out," I say, comfortably aware that I have just invited myself to a complete stranger's studio. 

"What do you do?" he retorts.  And I explain that I work at Make-A-Wish and come fall we are having an art auction and would be honored to have his consult.  Not to worry! I have not forgotten about his wife the writer, and I add that I aspire to write...well, I write, but I aspire to write well...and here I humbly stumble over my words because I have limited practice verbalizing my passion.  For a moment my confidence falters, and he keenly observes me, carefully choosing his response.

"I am close friends with the editor of XYZ magazine, and I should most certainly introduce you to him. Even if you don't like him, you may like one of  his friends and will  make many contacts through him. Let me give you my card."  He hands me his card. "You may Google my name," he says like I need permission to do this. "And please give me a call so I can arrange for you to meet some people. I am very well connected with both writers and artists," he states unfaltering.  I smile.

"My name is Emma," I offer so as to avoid being named the banana girl. 

"Hi Emma. I'm Jacob," he replies even though I am holding his card with his full name on it.

"Jacob, I have to go to Long Island and am going to miss to the train if we don't start walking."  I just met this man, so I don't demand that he walk me to the subway, but he does because he senses this is what I want.  And for the next two blocks we talk excitedly about the city, the people you meet, and we agree that there simply are no coincidences.

Outside the subway entrance he says, "Emma, call me in the next ten days. After ten days my wife and son will be home, and she will require every last bit of my undivided attention. But call me, so I can set you up with [a bunch of names and companies I cannot remember]. They will be thrilled to have an intelligent, pretty young woman around." (Remember, this is all very romanticized with the French accent.)  "And you may not meet the right writer but maybe you'll meet your husband. And then you'll have a big house in Connecticut with lots of children! And maybe one day you'll walk in on your husband in bed with someone, and it will all be because of the bananas!" He exclaims, smiling mischievously.

"JAAAACOB!" I protest then bid him a quick farewell and fly down the stairs to the subway.

I miss my train. The next train I can take does not match up with the bus schedule, and I will have to wait approximately 15 minutes.  I tell myself time is a small price to pay for such a wonderful morning.  There are no coincidences! I remind myself.  Reassuring me that my serendipitous meeting shall indeed play a positive role in my life, the universe thoughtfully stalls the bus.  Upon arriving to New Hyde Park train station, the fashionably late bus is there waiting for fashionably late me. Viola!