We swapped résumés but it was like reading our own. Both raised by single mothers always teetering on the edge of poverty. Attended public schools where we not only survived but prevailed: we captained teams, won popularity contests, and graduated first in our respective classes. Then on to college, Brown for me, Harvard for David, paid for in small part by merit scholarships and in enormous part by student loans. Then Columbia Law for me and Harvard B-school for David and another layer of student loans on top of the first. And now here we were, a first-tier law firm for me, a major I-bank for David. Not bad for poor white trash, he said, and I threw my head back and let out a laugh because I knew we would have the last one.

Before dessert, we found ourselves in the restroom, his pants down, my skirt up, our bodies coming together with the inevitability of water seeking its own level.

We never returned to the table. Instead we grabbed our coats from the hatcheck girl and ran laughing out into the street. A fine mist was in the air, and it beaded on our faces like dewdrops. David threw up his arm, and a cab cut in to the curb. “Shall we do yours or mine?” he asked.

I turned and looked down the avenue. The streetlamps, the traffic lights, the illuminated storefronts, the shimmering facets of the spire on the Chrysler Building—they danced and sparkled in the swirl of the mist. “Neither,” I said, and lifted my arms like a maestro to take in all the dazzling beauty of the city. “Let’s do ours.”

He knew what I meant. With a smile, he waved off the cabbie and took my hand, and we plunged together into the night.

We wandered the empty streets for hours, talking, laughing, sometimes singing. Sprinting through red lights and splashing through puddles, stopping to kiss at every tourist landmark in the city. Manhattan was ours, and we were hers. We made our way south, like homing pigeons, to the Financial District. He pointed out his building, and I pointed out mine, and we heel-toe-walked the distance between them and declared we were practically neighbors. The night was ending by the time we reached Battery Park, and we ambled along the Esplanade as the stars winked out and the sky turned from black to gray and the boats glided ghostlike through the harbor. When the first fingers of sunlight began to steal out over the water, I leapt onto the base of a lamppost and swung circles around it while I crowed an exultant greeting to the dawn.

I expected David to laugh. I hoped he would join in, but he did neither. I turned and found him gazing up at me with a look of disbelief on his face. I felt suddenly ridiculous. I’d let my guard down. He’d seen too much of me. I climbed down.

“Eight million people in this city,” he said slowly. “I never thought I’d find it. But you’re it, aren’t you?” His eyes were full of wonder, and I realized he hadn’t seen too much of me at all. What he’d seen was himself. His perfect match. And I, mine. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” he said. “The one I’ve been looking for—”