A man named Ronald finds a little address book lying on the sidewalk.

It’s open to the letter “A.” He sees the name “Amy” and thinks, “This is the one.” He is a lonely man. He’s spent his entire life waiting for fate to give him a sign of what it had in store—and there it was. A little address book on the ground, open to the name “Amy.”

He goes to Amy’s address and, upon seeing her, feels he’s found the woman he was meant to meet. But Amy lies, says she knows who the address book belongs to, and will keep it to return it to its owner. She sends Ronald away. Ronald exits our story.

Amy keeps the address book. She doesn’t recognize any of the other names. But she feels that it was destiny that brought her the book—not that insignificant man whose name she doesn’t even remember. What I want, what I’ve waited for all my life, is in this little book, she thinks. She, too, is lonely, and lives with a cat. Amy closes her eyes and lets her finger choose a page. She lets her finger do destiny’s work. Her finger lands on the letter “H.” A name: Henry. “This is the one,” thinks Amy.

Amy goes to find Henry. She’s greeted by an older man, dyed hair, wearing a silk robe, living with his mother.

While Henry flips through the little address book—also not recognizing any other name—Amy examines his apartment and thanks destiny for bringing her there. She likes everything about it: the man, despite the dyed red hair, the decor, even the mother. Amy feels she’s found who she’s been waiting for all along. But Henry lies too, says he knows who the book belongs to and will keep it to return to the owner.

He thanks Amy, says goodbye, almost pushes her out the door. Amy leaves devastated—out of the apartment and out of the story. She doesn’t even keep the book, to try another name and think “This is the one.”

Henry, on the other hand, is fascinated by the address book’s possibilities. He feels it will be an intellectual adventure to uncover the owner’s identity through the names it contains. Each name a personality, a story. “A great idea for a short story,” he thinks. But he also considers the erotic possibilities, lounging in his silk robe. All those unknown names, waiting for his move...

He chooses a name under the letter “R.” “Ricky.” Just “Ricky,” a phone number and address. “This is the one,” thinks Henry. Maybe destiny is bringing him a great love—or at least a great night. He decides to start his investigation with Ricky.

But Ricky is a disappointment. For starters, “Ricky” isn’t a first name—it’s a last name. Octavio Riccardo. Henry arrives expecting a young, fun Ricky who might help him discover the address book’s owner—or even join him for a weekend in the Hamptons—but instead finds an old, cranky, married Ricky with a belly and zero sense of humor. Ricky has no idea what address book Henry is talking about and wants no part in the conversation.

Henry decides to abandon his instincts and turn to logic. He’ll start the book from the beginning: the letter “A.”

The first name is, let’s see… Amy, of course. He already met her—and she knows less than he does.
The second name: Anderson. Dr. Anderson.

The door is opened by an agitated woman who says, “Fate sent you to me!” before Henry can explain why he’s there. She tells him she’s Dr. Anderson’s wife. Henry knows exactly who Dr. Anderson is: the one with the library.

The library?

Yes, the famous one—walls lined floor to ceiling with rare first editions. Dr. Anderson is famously cultured, a man who only reads the classics. And a scoundrel, she says. “He’s cheating on me!” she yells. “He’s at her house right now!” She explains that her husband, who rarely left the library for years, has lately been stepping out every afternoon—and that very day, she followed him to the other woman’s house.

But she didn’t have the courage to knock and catch the scoundrel red-handed, probably in his underwear. That’s why fate brought Henry to her door—to knock on that other door, under some excuse, and later report what he saw.

And just as Henry is leaving—with the address of the other house in his pocket—the woman asks:
“Who are you, anyway?”

Dr. Anderson cracks the door and says, “Can I help you?”
Henry tells the story of the lost address book. Perhaps Dr. Anderson can help identify its owner. Perhaps, in conversation, they’ll stumble upon a mutual friend or acquaintance and solve the mystery.

Dr. Anderson agrees and lets Henry in. Henry notices he was reading a copy of People magazine, using his finger as a bookmark. There are stacks of cheap gossip magazines scattered around the small room.

On a shelf beside a worn armchair—nearly the only piece of furniture in the place—he sees the full collection of Harry Potter, books by Dan Brown, Colleen Hoover, and other bestsellers, along with pulp paperbacks with glossy, lurid covers: The Night of the Peep Show, and so on. No sign of a mistress.

Henry realizes the apartment is a secret refuge—where the famously intellectual Dr. Anderson comes to read what he actually likes, hidden away from others and far from his public library.

Their conversation ends without discovering who the address book belongs to.
Just as Henry is leaving, Dr. Anderson asks:

“How did you know I’d be here?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He smiles and says goodbye. Out on the street, he flips through the book.

The next name: Betsy.
Betsy!
What kind of character is she? What’s her story? The address isn’t far.

Henry follows his destiny.

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