The weekends are reserved for the first of my (now two) dance related book projects. I headed this afternoon to the Lincoln Center Library. On my journey from the subway and through the lower level of the MET, a man walking behind me whistled the introduction of Prokofiev’s “Prodigal Son.”

The music repeated through my head as I scoured the shelves at the library. It was a dead-end trip, the library had none of the materials I wanted. I could of stayed and done some peliminary research for the second dance book project that I was recently handed, but instead decided to go home.

I walked past Avery Fisher Hall, still humming the music from “Prodigal Son.” Then suddenly I spotted a familiar face standing by one of the pilars, talking with another fellow.

It was NYCB dancer Damian Woetzel! He was holding his dance bag, standing turned out, nodding with that fluffy hair of his blowing in the wind. I stopped walking and my mouth hung open. The man he was speaking with knew that I knew who he was, but Damian was so engrossed that he hardly noticed me.

I ran and hid behind a pillar and dialed up Dione, who is in love with Damian. I kept peeking to see if he was still there, and he was. Dione never picked up, and she wasn’t at home, so I hung up the phone, whispered “Darnit,” and watched as Damian parted with his friend and crossed the plaza toward New York State Theater.

In an otherwise worthless afternoon, that was my glimmering ray of happiness.