There was some fear, on my part, that our sojourn might dampen what made our encounter so special in the first place. Some strange, quiet alignment had determined that our planned coffee date six months before would evolve into a fated afternoon and evening together, where we seemed to slip into a parallel dimension for that time. I always thought this type of connection had to be the work of something beyond our comprehension — how could such a fleeting encounter leave so strong a mark?
I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d have had the same effect on one another if we’d known each other for a full month instead of half a day, but shook the thought out of my mind as I prepared to leave.
***
It was early February, a few days before my birthday. I was late, as usual, and not looking forward to being in the 18th arrondissement. The tardiness and my choice of outfit reflected a certain ambivalence — less accidental than it might have appeared.
First encounters had long since lost their ability to unsettle me, yet the ritual of their opening moments still carried a faint unease: the scanning of faces, the mutual taking of measure, the slow arrival into conversation. Before I had time to linger there, I caught sight of him — yellow hair, a brown wool coat draped over his stocky frame, hunched over a table. I greeted him the French way, a kiss on each cheek, then took my seat across from him and apologized for my lateness. He looked up at me with a grin that lingered, his gaze doing the same.
It soon became clear that my fear of a wasted afternoon had been unfounded. Moments gave way to hours; the café gave way to an exhibition, then a park, then a shop, then his apartment. We sat in his living room into the wee hours of the night, sharing a bottle of wine and trading stories with the type of abandon one would only offer those they’re not likely to cross paths with again.
He moved out of Paris a few hours later.
***
I worried that in the intervening months, encouraged by distance and uncertainty, the connection had grown to disproportionate proportions in my mind.
But when we embraced in the walkways of Malpensa airport, the doubt dissolved without ceremony. Whatever this excursion might yield — a pleasant detour, a disappointment, something enduring — felt entirely beside the point.
We stopped for coffee about an hour into the drive, where I handed him an envelope of printed photographs from our first meeting. He studied them quietly, lingering over small moments preserved in 10×15 amber frames. Watching him leaf through them, I was struck by the odd intimacy of it — this brief return to something that had existed only for an afternoon, now made tangible again after six months apart.