He was weaving his way down the street when I came up behind him and grabbed his arm. "Hey there, Dean. How are you?" I can see from his face that its a bad day. He offers me a drink if I come in and sit with him, I accept the chair and take a coke.


He doesn't have the energy to flirt. He asks the obligatory questions about where I have been, how are things. I could tell him I was abducted by aliens and forced into intergalatic concubinery. He's not listening, just slowly shaking his head and staring off slightly above his Johnny Walker Red Label. "But how are you Dean? Having a bad day?"


He meets my eyes. "Ever lost someone you loved?" He knows my story, but he's so far gone, he can't remember. I've been that far down in sadness. When you can't even recognize your friends anymore, when you can't even recognize your living room.


"Yes."


He means dead. He's talking about his wife who died suddenly in May. In a way I envy him because death at the very least isn't personal. If you aren't getting phone calls or emails, it's not a choice, it's not just you, if the person is dead. Rejection is just a very personal death. Your loved one still goes about the day as if still alive, but sees through you, walks by you leaving only a chill instead of aknowledgement. An individual haunting.


"I've never been through anything like this before."


Almost seventy years old, and this is the first time he has experienced this kind of loss. No wonder I seek out the company of old men. They understand where I live, but how can someone go for so long without knowing this feeling? I thought it was universal. Apparently not. Apparently I get to be special. Again. A prodigy in loss.


He's beginning to cry. "I never felt like this when I lost my parents." I never cried at my father's funeral, I cried over Eric. Eric never cried over me, he cried over failing calculus. The things that break us: Love and Calculus.


"It's different. You expect to lose your parents."


"You're right." He turns to me. "You're a great person, you know that. A real sweetheart."


"Yeah, I'm a peach." I'm echoing someone else's words.


He takes my hand. Tears streaming down his face now. "I'm so sorry."


"Nothing to be sorry about," I tell him. The bar is empty aside from the two bartenders. No shame in front of other men. I still occassionally break down in tears over Eric. Not like I used to. Months can go in between now, but in the beginning it was the fight for minutes. He's only six months in. I'm impressed he keeps his composure as much as he does.


I sit there holding his hand. There's nothing I can tell him. That it gets better? That it gets easier? That he'll find someone else? I'm drowning myself, but still I sit here and wonder how to save him.


"Every think you'll get married?"


I flinch, but don't pull my hand back. He doesn't remember. Too far in to be aware of anything but his own pain. He put his hand over his chest. That pain. I know it. The one that shouldn't be real, but is. That tightness over the chest. The weight. The feeling that someone has literally punched through your body leaving a hole in which you can feel the autumnal wind.


"No."


"Too bad. You would make a great wife."


I make an excuse. I have to get dinner. Haven't eaten all day. Have to get rest. He seems better now. Tries to cop a feel as we hug. "You're alright, kid" he says as I leave.


He doesn't know how wrong he is. I let it stay that way.