The phantom of lost love

We met on a post-holiday night at the Jack’s Construction Site. I had never been to a gay bar before and didn’t even know what I should wear. I settled on jeans, cowboy boots and a leather jacket. He motioned for the bartender to hand me a beer. Because I looked so out of place, he said. I could see the twinkle in his eyes from across the bar. His stare suggested he knew our future. And then I glimpsed a fleeting look of profound sorrow. He knew I would love him forever. And he knew that he would leave.

I thought if I stood beneath this flickering lamp post on a deserted Park Avenue corner he would saunter through the snow shuffling along behind his basset hound. As he neared me he would pause, gasp, and then smile. His hound would sniff my feet and gaze upward knowingly into my eyes and then take a seat. He would look into my eyes and whisper, “Finally.”

In the early months I would follow and sometimes chase him, but he always got away. I was moseying daydreaming on Central Park South, when from a half block away, he looked at me, turned to walk into the park and then slowly, silently looked back. I continued walking, watching, but did not follow.

As I sat in the window at Fada exhaling slowly over a steaming mug of latte, I saw him bundled against the piercing wind and driving snow, darting among the lost souls on Driggs.

I caught a whiff of Hermes at Balducci’s and spotted him in the produce department rummaging, reaching for an unblemished bosc.

Dashing into an optometrist’s office clutching his broken eyeglasses.

Exiting the L two cars up as I boarded for my Bedford Avenue stop.

Thumbing through the Sunday Times at the newsstand at Union Square.

Rifling through a mangled pile of half-off cashmere sweaters at Barney’s.

When I slowly awoke nestled in flannel sheets on a frosty morning and watched swirling clouds of snow dance from rooftop to rooftop across the street from my Williamsburg flat, I heard him whisper, “Morning, my prince.”

“The avocado is not quite ripe yet,” I said to myself as I began to prepare a dinner for one. In another room I heard him chuckle, “Let’s have another gin and tonic and wait.” I imagined, I imagine.

It’s been 13 years since he left. And a few months since I’ve seen him. And a few weeks since I’ve thought about him.

I sat beside someone on the train this morning. Handsome, witty, kind. Loves dogs. Adores old ladies. Thinks television is a blight on humanity. Sees “A Confederacy of Dunces” as the funniest collection of words in the English language. Cries at my suggestion that Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time” is the most beautiful piece of music ever penned. Suspects that no one has ever been able to define passion better than Millay. Insists that no one has ever been able to sing as passionately as Brightman. Knows how to make cornbread. Stresses that the secret to having peace in the world is teaching all people how to entertain properly. Agrees with Thoreau that no companion is so companionable as solitude. Listens to country music because of its ability to convey feelings honestly. Argues that life without love is pointless. Falls in love slowly and then loves for life...

I looked into his blue eyes, oblivious to the rocking car and bustling throngs, and felt that almost forgotten feeling of warmth and comfort.

Saturday we’ll meet again for coffee and let our dogs romp in the park. And maybe, just maybe, I will stop seeing the ghost.