Two months had gone by before I saw him again. The last time was in April. He had just moved into a new apartment. His new girlfriend was moving in later that afternoon. We got lunch at a nearby sandwich shop and ate it on his balcony. He was nervous. I half-heartedly helped him straighten up the place. I left before she arrived.
I never met her. I guess she didn’t like me—or didn’t like girls who used to fuck her boyfriend.
We talked every day anyway. He wished me a good morning before my boyfriend did (if he did at all), and he kept me entertained throughout my boring days at work.
The day I saw him again, we decided to meet up for lunch, at the same place we had lunch last time. We talked every day, but I missed him. I missed the familiar comfort of his presence, even though we both had other people now.
I got to the sandwich shop first. I waited anxiously in a booth, looking out the window for his distinct yellow pickup truck. After a few long minutes, I saw it pull up. A tall man got out, wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt and light brown Levis—clothing inappropriate for the sweltering June afternoon, but perfect for a day in an air-conditioned office.
He opened the glass doors, I got up to meet him, and we embraced like old friends do.
He had a beard now. His eyes were more blue than I remembered. He looked taller. He looked older.
We ate and talked for longer than he probably should have taken for a lunch break. He told me his relationship wasn’t going well. I gave him the advice a friend should give him, but I secretly wished it would end.
I didn’t want him to go back to work. I didn’t know when I would see him again. I missed him more than you’re supposed to miss a friend. I missed him more than you’re supposed to miss someone who isn’t your boyfriend.