For the first few years after our brief time together, I did look for him whenever I was in Boston. Not blatant stalking or hunting him down – I knew where he lived and where he worked, so it would have been easy enough to find him. I’m talking generally, if I was on the T or walking around Copley.
Once, I thought I saw him – the man had a head of grayish white hair, so the malicious, vengeful, spiteful part of me was hoping it was him. I quickened my pace and approached, almost calling out his name, but as I reached him I saw that I had been mistaken. That was the last time I remember looking for him, and it was over twelve years ago. Today he’d be about 50 years old.
These days I only think about him in the Fall, if at all, and not with much anger, only a small bit of sadness, tinged with pity. Even that gets harder to muster as the years pass, and I am not sorry for it.
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