when you walked into the lobby, the last person you expected to see was him.

it had been, what, almost ten years since he disappeared?

standing in the doorway you thought no, not disappeared. left.

later, you ran into his sister. you asked how he was.

she looked at you, was quiet, and then said they only heard from him every now and then.

she said they didn't know where exactly he was, just out of the country.

you had moved on.

moved forward.

moved across the country to finish school.

when he stood, slowly, from that chair, you weren't sure if it was him or not. he had changed so much. his hair, which had always been long, at least shoulder length, was gone, sheared away.

he had kidded, when you two were together, about shaving it off, but you told him no. you told him you liked his hair. and you would spend nights with his hair between your fingers, quiet, on the front porch of his parents' house.

his hair was gone, his skin was darker, and there was a ring on fourth finger of his left hand. your eye was drawn to it. simple and silver, it made you smile.

it was the ring you had always imagined for him.

plain, unobtrusive, but solid. like him.

he talked. his voice had changed. it was deeper, softer than it had been, and the twang of his roots had almost rubbed away.

you cooked him dinner. spaghetti. and you watched him as he ate.

quietly, faster than he had when he was younger, but the relish was still there. when he started humming, you laughed. he looked up, sheepish.

that, at least, hadn't changed.

he always had that confidence about him, but it had been loud, bragging, a false cover. and it was still there, but quieter.

he was more sure of himself.

more grown.

with that ring on his finger.

he told you about mexico, panama. he told you about sleeping on the beach in the rain because he had no money. he told you of italy.

but he never spoke of the ring.

you two sat on the couch, in the silence, talking in spasms.

he had told you he loved you. he was the first man, those years ago, to ever say that to you. and now, here he was, clenching and unclenching fists that you could tell were calloused, fists you could see the scars on. he had told you he loved you.

and you know, because you knew the man he was inside those years ago, those few traits that stay with a man through the years no matter, those things that were set in stone inside, you knew he wouldn't be there unless somewhere there was a grave marked with a stone carved with "wife" on it.

you ask, "how did she die?"

he nods, expecting the question, and said, "her heart gave out."

and you say, "i am sorry."

and he says, "you would have liked her. she laughed loudly. honestly. and she smelled like the dawn."

and you say, "how long?"

and he says, "six years."

and you say, "i am so sorry."

then he leans back. he begins his longest speech. he says, "i went all over the place. i saw such beautiful things, sometimes through fuzzy eyes, sometimes through eyes that had swelled nearly shut. i've seen the sun rise over the ocean after a predawn rain. i've seen trees so big and so wide they made you feel like you hadn't begun to grow. and i have been loved by a few women. good women. and, in my way, i loved them back. but they were never you."

and you, you are silent. you don't know what to say.

you fell in love with a man four years ago. it lasted three years, until you found him cheating on you in the apartment you shared.

as you walked away from that relationship, as you packed the boxes and moved across the city, as you drove the truck with your best friend sitting next to you for support, you found yourself telling her that he would have never done that.

and across the bench seat she just looked at you.

now he is here. and now he is standing, ready to leave.

but you grab his hand. you say, "stay the night."

you say, "you can have my bed, i'll sleep on the couch."

you say, "rest some before you go."