He came to see me. I adored him so of course I jumped with excitement when he appeared at my front door, with a bottle of wine. White, I believe it was. He told me that he had read a lot of my books and that he’d never thought I’d go so far with fiction.
“Your male characters, most were me, weren’t they? And were you really in love with me?” he asked with a teasing smile.
I laughed and said, “I’m a writer. I say a lot of things.”
I didn’t give him a direct answer but he himself was an intelligent, witty writer and understood me well. He already knew.
Then we were silent, just looking at each other, enjoying the moment with our wine glasses and reminiscing about the past. He had not changed, but I had. I was not that loud, crazy teenager anymore. I had more pride now that I had been published and recognized in a city like New York. And I think he sensed the change. He was sitting in front of a known writer, not a child running around like a wanton, dreaming up stories and books and a published name. He had always told me I was great but I never accepted that. No, I said I was a fine writer, not great. I could be better.
“I love the wine. Thank you,” I broke the silence.
“I wasn’t sure, but I recalled from your writings that you don’t like red wine. Am I right?”
“You know me well dear John.”
“Hardly,” he said and winked.
I remembered how we used to tease each other, how I’d mock him and he’d sneer. We had such good times together. Short, brief, but memorable moments.
“So what are you here for? You don’t like this city and besides, I thought you’d forgotten me,” I said.
“You are not easy to forget. But you’re right. I don’t like this city.”
To be continued…