Love In The Time Of Apps Read online

  The woman touched his arm and smiled as if something amusing had just occurred to her or as if she was about to make mischief. “Well,” she said, “I was waiting for someone special and here you are.”

  Goodwin felt a small surge of warmth wash over him like a sudden fever, in this case a very nice fever. She laughed, “You’re blushing.” Goodwin noted with a degree of pleasant satisfaction that her hand was still on his arm.

  “Where is glibness when you really need it,” he replied.

  She smiled, “I’m sorry. I’ve always been extremely forward. And, my hand on your arm isn’t polite of me. It’s just that I’m a very tactile person.”

  “So am I. And I find your tactile nature very touching.”

  She smiled, “Very good, a hint of glibness. But you don’t mind that I’m very forward do you?”

  “Absolutely not.” This spec of conversation and transient physical contact was enough for Goodwin to conclude that they had already connected.

  “My name is Sophie D’Amour.”

  Goodwin noticed that her voice was different than most of the women he knew. It was deep and throaty, sexy. He was close enough to Sophie to receive the full embrace of her perfume and was struck by its potency, a wonderful mixture of aromas, like Vogue Magazine’s December Christmas issue filled to the brim with lots of scented perfume ads. He wasn’t used to its deep, intoxicating aroma because Sheila had taken to wearing only light perfume. “Perfume spritzers” he would call them. Sheila disavowed heavy perfume because she thought it might adversely affect her weight.

  Goodwin noticed that she had been on her iPhone. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem at all. I just got this a few hours ago. It’s the latest version of the iPhone 10 GS. I heard that with the next version you will be able to get an App to communicate with your dead uncle, and conference in God.

  Though he knew she was joking, Goodwin said reflexively, “Seriously?”

  She began to laugh. “No, of course not. I’m just kidding. Oh, my. I made you blush again. It is truly an amazing piece of equipment, but it sometimes tends to isolate you.”

  “Isolate?”

  “Sure, look around. Every single person in this restaurant who is by himself is not looking around or talking to his neighbors. He is totally engrossed in his electronic, virtual life, not in the life around him; me included, until you came along.”

  He liked the way she said that last phrase. It had the underlying tone of “I’m glad you are here.” As he looked around the bar and the restaurant, he realized that she was absolutely right. Without exception, everyone who was alone, and many couples who were together, were emailing, texting or connected to some App and not with each other. “Wow. I see what you mean.”

  “It’s incredible. There are now tens of millions of applications for the iPhone and some for the oddest things. I was loading some normal Apps on my phone, for example for the New York Times and Fandango and then I stumbled upon one called, ‘PEP.’”

  “For more energy?”

  She became hysterical and was laughing so hard that she put her hand on his thigh for support. He felt the sensation in his loins growing. Recovering her composure she said, “That’s what I thought. And, I suppose in a tangential way, a very tangential way, it relates to energy. But PEP means, in this case, “Premature Ejaculation Preventer.” Before Goodwin could say, “You’re kidding,” which was forming on his lips she continued, “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not kidding. They have an App for everything else, so why not this. Here see for yourself.”

  Goodwin read: “If you believe your lover is about to have a premature ejaculation and you wanted to prevent this, click on any one of the images and show it to him immediately. These images have been tested thoroughly at the PEP Institute and found to be 100 percent effective in preventing this malady.”

  Goodwin pressed the first one and saw a photograph of Mother Theresa crying. Amazingly he immediately noticed a diminution of the strange but pleasant feeling in his groin.

  “What are the others?”

  “I haven’t checked all of them, but I have a friend who used the one of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Ave Maria successfully on several occasions,” she replied nonchalantly. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “one of my friend’s dates had a strong choir fetish and, well, you can imagine. It was a real mess.” He wasn’t sure if she was serious or kidding, but from her slight smile he assumed she was joking.

  The final notation of the App was rather startling. “If none of these images work, go to our other App called ‘Electronic Cattle Prod.’”

  After laughing and some light banter, Goodwin said: “So tell me, Sophie, what you do?”

  “Well, I am an attorney. I went to Harvard Law School, was third in my class, editor of the law review, clerked for a Supreme Court justice, and then became a hardcore litigator in a large prestigious law firm. I loved the work, billed 3000 hours a year and somehow became the firm’s in house expert on trial procedure and evidence. The only downside is that as an associate your life is entirely devoted to the firm. Your life outside the firm is pretty insignificant and this often impacts on getting involved in a long-term relationship. So, after 10 years of high paid slavery, I was on the cusp of being made a partner, literally minutes away. But it never happened and now I work for a small firm helping abused women and children and the shelters in which they live.”

  For the first time since they met, Sophie’s mood changed. She was quite serious and somewhat emotional. “These women and their children are often victimized in unspeakable ways by their husbands or boyfriends and the system set up to protect them often doesn’t work at all. They are people who simply fall through the cracks, with no family or support system, government or otherwise. I do whatever I can for them; sometimes even give them my own money.”

  “That’s pretty noble of you. I suppose you took a hit on salary.”

  “From $250,000 to $50,000. But the hours are normal and I feel that I’m really helping these people.”

  “I get the sense that you’re saying this a bit wistfully, that you miss the big firm life.”

  “In a way I do. Sometimes I read about a big case one of my colleagues is now handling and wonder what would have happened if I stayed. But, I couldn’t.”

  From time to time, particularly when he watched movies or plays, Goodwin heard the expression that someone could see the sadness in another person’s eyes. He never had this actual experience until this moment. The sadness in Sophie’s eyes was striking.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Sure. I’m told it’s good for me to talk about it, but not at the bar. Let’s find a table in a quiet spot inside.”

  They moved from the bar to an out of the way table. Sophie began. “My firm was downtown, on lower Broadway a block from Wall Street. We had the top three floors and a magnificent 360 degree view of the city. As usual, I arrived at 6:30 in the morning. Normal working hours do not apply when you are an aspiring associate in a large firm, particularly if you are involved in litigation. I was surprised to find an email from the managing partner in the firm asking, no not asking, inviting, me and three other senior associates for coffee with the firm’s executive committee in the West conference room. When you get this type of invitation it only means one thing. You are going to be invited to become a partner. It’s an invitation that no one turns down. If, on the other hand, you were going to be laid off, you’d simply get a call from your practice group leader.”

  “I arrived at 8:30 am sharp in the conference room. The other associates had phoned in that they would be there a bit late, but it was business related lateness, so the partners did not seem to mind. The other associates never came. I was checking my watch when we heard the first explosion.”

  It didn’t take any great intellect for Goodwin to realize exactly what Sop
hie was talking about and Goodwin said with genuine pain in his voice, “Oh, no.”

  “We watched in horror as the second plane hit the South Tower. We didn’t know what to do. One of the secretaries ran into the conference room. The other associates were at a breakfast meeting in Windows on the World, which was on the top floor of the Tower. I later learned that they all died. We watched everything including the collapse of the Towers. I stayed until late in the evening and when I left the building I walked east away from the Towers until I was by the East River. But even there, the air already had the stench of fire and I guess of death. Where were you?”

  “In a way I was lucky. I was in Australia at the time. From that vantage point and seeing it on television the whole thing seemed surreal. The realty hit later that day when I learned that several members of my country club lost sons and daughters. I was stuck in Sydney and didn’t get back for 10 days.”

  “So, you missed the weather right after 9/11.”

  “The weather?”

  “Yes. I had always felt that there was an irony with the weather in the days that followed in that it was lovely every day. It was a rare stretch of weather for which New Yorkers yearn. But, few of us noticed. I walked around like a lost soul and spent many hours sitting on a bench in Central Park either staring into space or weeping. In different times, people might have taken notice of my behavior, but that week a person crying in public was pretty common. Life, as they say, goes on and two weeks later the firm re-opened. I just couldn’t go back down there. I could not bring myself to return to that area. Frankly, at that point I had no desire to really work. I quit. The partners tried for a time to get me to come back, but my decision was irrevocable.”

  “After about a year of being in a total funk, more than likely being clinically depressed, I took a job with this pro bono law firm. And I guess helping other people has helped me a lot. So, that’s my story.”

  Her eyes were slightly moist. Goodwin didn’t quite know what to make of the overwhelming emotion that he was experiencing at that moment. It was so strong that it had a physical presence within him. Empathy? Sadness? Love? All three? Whatever it was, the emotion was powerful enough to cause him do something totally uncharacteristic. He leaned over and kissed Sophie gently on the cheek, as if to comfort her and said, “I’m so sorry.” She kissed him back, on the lips, not sexually, but more as a gesture of thanks. He was surprised at his behavior, but delighted by her parry back. And, he noticed that her mood lightened considerably.

  Hoping to bring the mood up further he asked, “Husband? Boyfriend? Significant other?”

  “None of the above. I had a few relationships, but nothing serious.”

  “Why’s that? You are a beautiful, intelligent, and actually, a very funny woman. You have an amazing sense of humor.”

  She smiled slightly and said with a strong tone of sarcasm, “So true. There are so few of us left. It’s what I call Sophie’s law. It’s like Murphy’s Law, but for relationships for people over 40. When you meet someone who is single and over 40, the odds are that he or she has as much baggage as a loaded 747 or is a functioning psychotic. The odds have simply been against me until now I think.”

  “You’re a good judge of character, Sophie. So do I have to worry about your baggage?”

  “Just a couple of small purses.”

  “Well, now that our lips have met, maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Philip Goodwin.”

  With the speed of a typing champion, Sophie entered his name into the PPR App on her iPhone and instantly linked into Pragat, but instead of being impressed, she appeared a bit crestfallen: “Oh, I see you’re married.”

  “Separated, trending towards divorce.”

  “Good…I mean good for me, hopefully not to painful for you. So…” she said smiling, “I see you are Pragat Rated and a 28. I’m a mere 20, just an average Jane.”

  “You’re anything but average Sophie.”

  She turned serious, “You know this PPR thing seems to be taking root and it’s a bit scary. Can you imagine if this becomes the actual standard for judging people?”

  “Ah, that will never happen.”

  “That’s what they said in Nazi Germany.”

  “So what do you think the criteria should be?”

  “There shouldn’t be any. People are so totally different from each other. Poor homely people can in essence be better than rich attractive people, but that will never be reflected in these ratings.”

  “It’s nonsense, I know. These ratings don’t tell anything about what a person is really like.”

  “You mean do they have a soul? Do they cry at movies? Love to walk along the Seine? Eat French fries with mayonnaise? Love libraries? Pray for the Yankees? Thank God for Woody Allen, Bruce Springsteen, British Actors, Broadway shows, kosher delis, and the Isle of Manhattan?”

  “God, Sophie, you’ve just described me.”

  “Funny. I was describing myself,” Without thinking about it, Goodwin put his hand on hers.

  “So Philip, if you had to use criteria what qualities would you choose?”

  It was an interesting question and one that Goodwin had not thought of before. “I don’t know for sure. Do you have any criteria?”

  She held up her iPhone and showed Goodwin an App icon of a heart with a ruler across its center. It was called True Measure. “This is the anti-Pragat ratings App. It lists one hundred criteria to truly measure a person’s worth. These are intrinsic characteristics, such as kindness and spirituality. It has some of Pragat’s criteria, but many others. Do you have an iPhone?”

  Goodwin took out his iPhone and in a matter of seconds downloaded the App.

  “Okay, let’s just pick seven that we each think are important and let’s list them in order of importance.”

  Goodwin chose: Empathy, Kindness, Honesty, Optimism, Humbleness, Spirituality, and Sense of Humor.

  “I’m ready. Philip, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” They exchanged iPhones. Their selections and the selections’ order of importance were identical. Goodwin said, “Something important is going on here and I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Maybe we’re soul-mates,” she replied. Though he always thought the notion of soul mates was absolute nonsense, Goodwin found himself thinking that she might be right.

  Sophie, would you like something to eat?”

  “Sure.”

  “What will you have?”

  “I’ll start with the warm fois gras, followed by the Caesar salad, followed by the king-sized prime rib with the mashed potatoes, extra butter, and lots of sour cream. And garlic bread. Yes, let’s have garlic bread. Oh, and let’s order a double creamed spinach. How about closing with a full cheese course with a glass of Chateau Yquem and a soufflé? What do you think?”

  Goodwin was in a state of exhilarated shock. This was something completely new for him, a dining companion that did not ask, no require, him to share an appetizer. Like a wounded puppy, he asked, “You don’t want to share an appetizer?”

  Sophie laughed at the idea, her only response being an incredulous, “Why?”

  Sheila and every woman at his club, which comprised most of the women he knew, always worried about their weight. Goodwin could not remember a time when Sheila ate a complete meal. If she ordered a sandwich, she would eat only half. If she ordered a minute steak she would try to eat 30 seconds worth. If they were at an affair and the host was serving pigs in blankets, she would eat either the pigs or the blankets, but never both. Virtually all of her friends appeared to have similar eating habits. Thus, when Sheila went out with them, they shared everything. Over a period of time, however, the half portions, a half of a sandwich for example, became the norm. It was not long before they began to split the half portions into quarters. This trend continued with each dish being split into smaller and smaller portions. It reached its logical conclusion when Sheila and three of her friends sat at a booth in a local diner and responded to the “What will you have?” quest
ion by answering, “Can the chef divide our order?”

  “Certainly,” the waitress responded.

  “Good, bring us four empty plates. And we’ll take separate checks.”

  “Philip, let me buy the wine. May I suggest the 2002 Jean-Marc Bouley, from Baume Les Reversees? It’s very full, sweet with ripe cherry, blackberry, and spice aromas. Very well structured and 2002 was a good year. At $40 a bottle, it’s a bargain. There’s virtually no mark up. Or we can get the 2002 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. It received a 95 in Wine Spectator. Goodwin was duly impressed. Like most of his friends, he only pretended to know something about wine and chose from a wine list intuitively by price and general wine type. When he later related this specific experience with Sophie to his friend Ricques, a man who took every opportunity to take a swipe at his own wife, Ricques replied: “My wife rates wine, too, by calorie count.” And in a falsetto voice: “Oh let’s get the Sauvignon Blanc, its only 120 calories.”

  “Philip, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you leave your wife?”

  “I didn’t. She left me for our marriage counselor.”

  “Ouch! I just assumed. Frankly, and my initial impressions are virtually always correct, it’s hard to see why anyone would leave you, or in fact, that you would be the cause of the end of your marriage.”

  “Thanks. But, it’s a pretty long story.”

  “I have all evening,” with that she pushed the icon for another App on her iPhone and an hourglass came up. She winked and said, “Actually, I don’t have all evening, just until 11 pm. So we have two hours.”