The Stranger

The restaurant was small and dark, and it was impossible not to brush against other tables and diners as we were making our way to our seats. But the proprietor sat us at what was probably the best table in what was probably the best section; it was a table for two adjacent to the huge window facing the street.

It was later in the evening, and this restaurant was an unexpected, last-minute choice. Given that it was a weeknight, there were only two other tables occupied, and I kept glancing at the man seated in my direct eyeline. He had a weak chin that he’d attempted to hide with a beard, and he reminded me of someone, but I didn’t recognize him or his female dining companion. The other table–at which sat two men–was directly to my right and cloaked in a shadow.

We opened a bottle of wine and started to relax, chatting as we perused the menu. Almost unconsciously, I found myself glancing to the bearded man, and then to the other table. Something familiar kept causing me to look their way, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, and I didn’t try. Each time I turned to look, the action was reflexive, driven by instinctively by something, but I couldn’t say what it was. I was hardly aware that I was even glancing around, and each time I did, my eye focused on the bearded, weak-chinned man who I thought I recognized.

Suddenly I turned my head again. It wasn’t the weak-chinned man who was catching my attention, it was a familiar voice. I turned again to the two men sitting at my right, and my eyes immediately fell on one of them. My heart froze for a second, then I slowly turned my head back to my boyfriend and resumed our conversation, though my mind was hardly focused on the words coming out of my mouth.

I didn’t look again, but within a minute I was aware that the men were standing up, gathering their things, and walking out the door. My boyfriend started to ask me a question, but I halted him as I waited for the men to walk down the sidewalk past our table in the picture window.

“That guy used to be one of my best friends,” I told him after they’d walked down the street. “I haven’t talked to him or heard from him in about 5 years. I didn’t even realize that he’d moved back to the city.”

I was introduced to D on my first day at college. I was a freshman, and T was the first person I met when I arrived on campus. D was T’s his best friend, and T introduced me to D, a senior. They both lived down the hall from me, and I was flattered and happy to make the aquaintance of two attractive upperclassman. For the first month or two, I think D saw me simply as one of a gaggle of girls who competed for his attentions. But slowly, we found some shared interests and carved out something of a friendship. Admittedly, I had a small crush on him, though he showed no signs of being interested in me romantically, but every sign of being interested in me as a person.

That year flew by, and quickly came to an end. D graduated, and I couldn’t tell you what he did immediately after graduation. Maybe he stayed in town, working at a local job. Maybe he left immediately and I just got periodic updates about him. We weren’t close enough to be in direct contact after he moved away, but we shared a lot of mutual friends. I’d think of him sporadically, but he wasn’t at the forefront of my mind.

My college years were a wonderful whirlwind, and before I knew it, senior year had arrived. I went home from the Christmas holiday, and flew back to the city shortly after the new year. It was a cold, wet January day, and I decided to take a commercial shuttle from the airport to campus. The dispatcher pointed me to the van, and told me we’d be leaving in a few minutes. I climbed in and started to get settled when a voice greeted me from the back of the bus. I turned around, and it was D.

He was moving back in town after working elsewhere for several years. We spent the entire ride catching up, and, since his future roommates wouldn’t be home for another couple hours, I invited him over to my apartment to hang out. We spent hours together catching up with one another before he headed over to his new home. As I think about it now, that chance encounter probably cemented a new, closer stage of our relationship.

Within months I had graduated, and we’d both moved to homes further from campus and closer to our jobs in the city. Our offices were just several blocks from one another, so on a regular basis we’d meet for lunch. I can also recall many night spent hanging out at my house or his. By this time I was in a serious relationship, and I’d long moved past the idea that there ever might be a romantic relationship with D. That was confirmed the day we met for lunch and he told me that he was gay. I was the first straight friend who he came out to, and he was a bit let down that the announcement didn’t generate more of a suprised or shocked reaction. A few months later, at his request, I broke the news to our mutual friend T.

As the years flew by, our relationship grew even closer, and he became my family away from home. We celebrated holidays together. We commisserated over failed relationships. We took vacations together. We spent many a summer hour sitting in his garden, listening to music, drinking wine and cooking dinner. On the morning of September 11, I sat in front of his television and together we watched what seemed like the world collapsing.

Within a year, our relationship had fallen to pieces. To this day I don’t know what caused it, though I’ve often wondered if his then-boyfriend, always kind and cordial toward me, might have been a factor. After all, little else had changed in our friendship, but with the arrival of this boyfriend (and, perhaps not coincidentally, with the arrival of a new boyfriend for me, too) we started to see less of one another. Holidays passed without joint celebration. Our communication was reduced to quick phone calls and short emails. Then I got an email from him, “We’re moving to another state. I have a couple things of yours, but they accidentally got packed. I’ll send them when we’re settled in.”

Then there was silence.

I got no reply to my emails. I never saw my possessions. (I was less concerned with my possessions and more concerned with our dissolving friendship.) I was hurt when I sent him a note sharing some bad news but got no acknowledgement in reply. A mutual friend fell upon hard times, and I read about it in the paper; at that point I wouldn’t have expected D to contact me about it, but I was surpised that D never called when our friend died. By that time I’d given up trying. I’d reached out to him too many times in the past, and was stonewalled at every effort. The rejection was too painful. Plus, other friends also felt as if he’d turned his back on us. That at least gave me some comfort; I shouldn’t take it too personally.

And then I found myself sitting less than 4 feet away from him. I was stunned at the notion that I didn’t even recognize someone who’d been such a close friend, someone who I’d known for nearly two decade. Should I say something? Did he recognize me? What would I say after all of these years? A dozen thoughts raced through my mind, but in the end I did nothing. After all, he was a stranger to me.