It was 4:30 in the afternoon and Helen was sipping sherry at her usual table outside Grant’s on Farmington Avenue. “Taking a nip of the old cooking sherry?” her daughters always teased her. They were off at college now. Helen sighed happily, took another sip and said “If I had a Pall Mall, the day would be perfect.”

Nobody turned around when Helen talked out loud. A few customers were talking into mikes clipped onto their shirts while the majority of diners were happily texting on their iPhones. Their thumbs were growing longer even as their pinky fingers were fast becoming vestigial appendages.

Helen talked to herself a lot lately, what with Jan and Sylvie both away. Thinking about her daughters she frowned, downed her sherry and ordered another. Her usual waiter raised his left eyebrow, shrugged his right shoulder and walked inside. This lady never ordered two drinks.

She stared at the couple at the next table. He was reading the latest stock quotes on his blue iPad. She was calculating the cost of a new BMW on her rose-colored iPad.

Helen tried to concentrate on something—anything—just not on the girls. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had been practicing yoga for months now. No help. Vivid scenes floated in front of her eyelids.

There was cool, aloof Jan up north. She was skiing on some mushy slope in Maine ready to break an ankle or two. Helen would have to go up to that god-forsaken place where weather beaten old farmers looked at you from under sprouting eyebrows and said “Ya’ can’t get there from he-yah.”

Sexy, in-your-face Sylvie, as far south as she could go. She was strutting down the halls of a co-ed dorm wearing thongs under her short-short-short see-through pants. She saw Sylvie prancing around on a nudie beach where Helen would go, lay her whimpering daughter face-down on a stretcher and fly her home. There she would tend Sylvie’s second-degree burns—all over her body—in places too embarrassing to mention.

Jan was a senior with a 3.7 GPA. If she survived living in Maine, she would go on to get her MBA, land a Wall Street job, earn a high six-figure salary, meet a smart young investment broker and, with their combined seven-figure salaries, they would buy a three-million-dollar apartment on Central Park South with floor to ceiling glass windows on all sides. They would never have to go outside to see the park or the Hudson River or Soho or NoHo where majestic buildings rose like the Phoenix from the ashes of abandoned warehouses.

Sylvie was a freshman. Again. She’d be lucky if she made it to the end of the semester without getting knocked up. She would move to some commune or ashram where she would wear scruffy Birkenstocks with her dirty toenails sticking out as she brazenly nursed the twins—one on each side—all the while eating kale and Brussel Sprouts with a side dish of couscous and lemon.

Helen didn’t want to think about it. So she sat at Grant’s on Farmington Avenue and people-watched instead.

There were the 30-something yuppies on their way home from work heading for the Elbow Room to drown their chagrin in alcohol. They were not prepared for a world that expected them to work without the admiration and praise they deserved. They drank and laughed and talked about the old farts who couldn’t tell their asses from their elbows.

There were the 40-something mothers pushing strollers at breakneck speeds, rushing home to set their pre-cooked over-priced Whole Foods dinners on the table.

There were baby boomers coming out of the Toy Chest where they had just bought toys for the grandchildren to destroy. This group waited patiently for the walk light so they could go to CVS and pick up Lipitor for their cholesterol and baby aspirin to keep their blood from clotting. Then they went on to an early bird special. A hamburger with a side order of fries.

Helen sighed. It was the same thing day after day. Not at all like it was in New York. There she would go to Grant’s on Broadway and she would people-watch a much more interesting crowd.

There were the men dressed in full-length mink coats. There were the up-tight women carrying Bergdorf shopping bags as they clicked along, perfectly balanced on 4-inch high stiletto heels. In another time, they could have passed for high-priced hookers. Now, with their perfect skin, aquiline noses, tiny waists and boyish hips they could very well be high-priced hookers masquerading as Ralph Lauren anorexic, breast-less, teen-age models.

Every day when the weather was good, the Purple Lady appeared completely decked out in that regal hue. In the summer, she sported purple hats with brims so wide she needed two seats in the bus. In the winter, she appeared in purple leather snow boots trimmed with lavender rabbit fur.

Helen remembered with delight the day she was eating at the West Side Café on Columbus, sitting in the sun, chatting with a friend. They were drinking Mango Tequilas waiting for their salads to arrive. A shadow fell over the table as a man in disreputable attire leaned over the railing and took two multi-grain rolls from their basket. Then he sauntered to the next table and lifted a turkey and cheese panini in pesto sauce. At the third table, he swiped a health salad with beets and feta cheese, plate and all. He put his loot in a “Save the Earth” reusable shopping bag, nonchalantly turned the corner and headed east. On her way home, Helen passed him picnicking in Central Park, dining on the bounty he had pinched and washing it all down with a beer he had appropriated from a trendy take-out food store.

At 5:30 Helen’s happy hour was up. How she wished she was back in New York sipping sherry and nibbling pretzels as she watched the assorted nuts pass by. Still, she knew that wouldn’t be enough. In New York, she could go to museums and movies and the opera and the ballet. Even that wouldn’t be enough.

What Helen really wanted, was for Jan and Sylvie to come home and the three of them would live together. They would argue and fight and scream at each other. Jan would give them the holier-than-thou act. Sylvie would flounce out the door and come back sloshed. Helen would cry and moan and drown her frustration in Rocky Road ice cream with hot fudge and sprinkles.

Is that what she really wanted? Sure. Hey, what are families for anyway?