Present Tense

One side effect of having a job that constantly required me to recognize people is that I often think I do – and often I am wrong.

This time I wasn’t.

I was sitting in a Caffe Nero on the Fulham Road, and I looked up from an article I was working on. I caught a glimpse of a familiar posture at a faraway table, although the frame looked a little to heavy to be the guy I was thinking of, who was freakishly thin.

He got up, went to the bathroom, and when he came back I saw his face. It was him – the guy I dated right when I moved to London. I met him on the third day I was here.

“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said.

“I moved to New York,” I said.

We talked about his half-brother, who I’d read had died of a drug overdose while on a gap year in India a couple of years ago. And about his dad, who was dying of Alzheimers. He told me he and the Russian not-wife (not being catty; just that they’re both north of 40 and seems funny to call her a girlfriend) are having a baby in a couple of days. It’s a boy they’re calling Michael, F’s father’s middle name.

“Are you in a relationship?” he asked.

I didn’t answer this one as coolly as I would have liked. I stammered something out, somewhat surprised that he asked – and that we seemed to be having a more personal conversation than any we had when we were dating.

He recommended a book I should read. I realized I have no idea what his taste in books is, and if it is at all similar to mine.

Sweet mystery of life.