At a tiny bar, he ordered his favorite drink — gin with quince syrup.
I teased him about it.
He insisted I had no appreciation for sophistication.
Then he lifted the glass.
For a moment, Thomas became completely serious.
He raised his glass.
“To second chances.”
I looked at him.
There were 50 years of questions between us.
Yet that night, I didn’t ask all of them.
Maybe I was afraid.
Maybe I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
For one night, I felt 29 again.
The next morning, I called him.
No answer.
I waited.
Then I called again.
By noon, his phone was off.
Something inside me tightened.
I told myself there had to be an explanation.
Maybe his battery had died.
Maybe he had gone somewhere.
Maybe I was allowing an old wound to control me.
By evening, I knew.
He had disappeared again.
The realization brought back an anger I hadn’t felt in decades.
Fifty years ago, I cried and let him go.
Not this time.
I was 79 years old.
I had spent half a century wondering why one man had walked out of my life without saying a word.
I refused to spend whatever time remained doing it again.
