Outside Le Gamin, a favorite local French crepe and coffee place, there is a small border collie tied to the bench. He looks up at me as I approach--the momentum of his tail moves his skinny hips. I pat his head, stroke his back. I don't pay too much attention; sometimes New Yorkers can be sensitive about their dogs. They are often more beloved than children.

I open the door and Ethan Hawke in earth tones and goatee is seated directly in front of the door. He looks me in the eyes and says, "I know exactly what you are thinking." This is good, I think, for I have long believed that only an actor/director/novelist could deconstruct my troubled head. I pause, he continues to talk: "Of course. Yes, yes. Of course." He is talking on a hands-free device. I realize I may have been mistaken, and that my inner-most thoughts may not be revealed like a draped prize on a game show. Or will they?

I mean, it is not beyond comprehension. A couple of years ago I wrote theater reviews, and was fortunate enough to see a Sam Shepheard play starring Mr. Hawke. Consider, as I sat through the Saturday matinee, young Ethan looking out into the audience, and seeing only yawning seniors trying to hold onto consciousness during a somewhat slow first act. But wait! Whose bright hazel eyes are these, so full of wonder, understanding? For a moment, suppose that one of America's greatest living treasures is looking deep into my psyche thinking, "If only I could tell this man what I, actor/director/novelist Ethan Hawke, now know."

But he is a professional, and would never break the fourth wall. Not even to share something as great as this.

Perhaps the fellow Chelsea-ite found himself walking behind me up 8th Avenue as I, myself, cell-phone-talked, and, while listening to my discourse, had a moment of true sight; a connection. Is it not out of the question that a man that can act/direct/write and secure an LTR with Uma Thurman could have a shared experience with me, a simple citizen whose only crime is forthright public conversation? Yes, Ethan, we are not so different, are we?

I like to think that Ethan was in fact speaking to me. A simple declaration: "I know exactly what you are thinking." A voice on the other end of the phone asks, "What? Who are you talking to? Are you even listening to me?"

Ethan: "Of course. Yes, yes. Of course."

The man is a professional, and his thoughts return to an upcoming film, or book, or actress that needs his attention. He is a martyr, and I forgive him for not having a moment to tell me, in detail, what it is I was thinking; to break it down into such simple, insightful nuggets that I sit nodding my head, mouth agape, as if to say, "Yes, you understand me. And now, I understand me."

Perhaps another day.

In a whoosh of activity, Ethan finishes his soup, pays the check and gathers his notes, pen, phone, and coat all in one motion. He is still talking, still excited as he pulls his coat on and passes through the glass doors. He unties his dog and heads on.

Me? I had coffee and a toasted baguette. Mmmmmmm...apricot preserves!

***