It was a rainy night in the neighborhood, when I saw him through a restaurant window. He didn’t even know I was there. I stopped for a moment, staying off at a distance like a ghost.
Here we were, 22 years later. His beard still a soft black. He still worked out. His ear still twinkled with his taste for sparkling earrings. He still had impeccable taste in clothes. I wondered if he still made fantastic omelets and strong thick coffee on Saturdays. He was with a stocky bear-type guy and a straight couple. He poured wine, and broke out mid-pour in his hearty Russian laugh. The sound seemed to chase away the raindrops and surround me.
I’d told him so many years before, after dating for a few months, that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. That I was still so new to being out, that I had more exploring to do. I pulled my coat up around my shoulders and walked away into the dark, ashamed that all Dmitri would remember me for was breaking his heart.