Chance Encounters

I smiled to myself. "Adam's a weird guy."

"Obviously."

Chance Encounter 3: Kyle Watson

January 29th, 2021 started like the preceding twenty-six January 29ths. I awoke next to David, my partner of twenty-six years and husband of six. We shared coffee. We kissed each other good-bye before we headed off to work, me to my office and him to his.

It ended unlike any other. At about 11:30, David texted that the fingers on his right hand were numb. At about 2:15, he texted that the vision in his right eye was "goofy." I immediately called him and told him to get an ambulance, to get to the emergency room as fast as he could, and I would meet him there.

He wasn't fast enough. The small strokes affecting his fingers and vision portended something worse: an ulcerated clot in his carotid artery broke free and went to his brain, blocking all blood flow to that side of his brain. He died in the back of the ambulance.

As I waited, I didn't understand why it was taking the ambulance so long to get to the emergency room. It turns out, it didn't take them long at all. There was just no longer any reason to be urgent with David.

"Are you waiting for David Dalton?" a young physician asked me.

"I am."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news," he said. "David suffered a massive stroke on his way to the hospital."

It's funny how fast your mind races. Expecting the best, my mind immediately raced to our running joke of "we're not putting ramps in this house" any time either of us refused to go to a physician when we should have.

"Can I see him?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm afraid the stroke was . . . fatal . . . " He kept talking, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. All I could hear was the blood in my ears.

I was bewildered. The words were floating, like leaves on a breeze. They couldn't land in my brain. They stayed in motion, slightly out of reach.

David was only fifty-four years old. He had kept himself in good shape. He wasn't diabetic, had very low cholesterol, and didn't smoke. There was no history of stroke in his family.

What I had heard wasn't possible. I'd have believed we had won the lottery before I could believe that unbelievable word . . . "fatal."

I pleaded David's health history to the young physician who had his hand on my shoulder and was helping me to sit down. I didn't mean to be, but I must have been yelling. He gently shsh'd me as he settled next to me. I put my face in my hands and tried to conceive the inconceivable.

It was not my first dance with tragedy. When I was twenty-one, my sister died in a car accident. She was fifteen when she died.

When I was twenty-six, my father died from sepsis after a routine surgery. Like David, he was only fifty-four.

I called my best friends. Both of them met me in the E.R. No one said a word. There was nothing to say.

The following days and weeks went by in a fog. I remember little of them. I know our families descended on Kansas City, tended to me, and then departed. I know our friends were very solicitous of me. I know our cat was forlorn, lying on the rug in front of the back door waiting for a return that was not coming.

I turned fifty-four on December 10th, 2021. I was supposed to go to dinner at Cafe Europa with my friend, Andrea. Since David's death, we had many times made plans to go to dinner, but I had always backed out. Other than for work, I was incapable of leaving the house David and I had shared.

Cafe Europa was one of the restaurants at which David and I had been regulars. For a long time, we had lived next door to the head chef, Micheal. At his suggestion, we had tried it. Once we had, we returned over and over again.

Just before David died, Kyle had started as Cafe Europa's host. Ky, as he introduced himself, as if the two extra letters of Kyle were simply too much to carry, was about half our age. We took an immediate shine to him, harmlessly flirting with him in the way long-term couples do.

Ky had dirty blond hair that he attempted to part on the side and to which he otherwise paid little attention. He had a beard that was much darker and redder than the hair on his head. He had blue eyes that were sparkly, especially when a smile parted his red lips and revealed his bright white teeth. He had dark eyelashes and eyebrows that made it look like he was wearing makeup, even though he clearly wasn't. He dressed like he looked, casual and comfortable. He wore unbuttoned henleys that showed he had a mat of straight, reddish hair covering his chest. His khakis and hunting boots made him look like he belonged on a mountain, not in boutique cafe.

Not long after we met him, he told us about his days as a snow bunny in Jackson Hole. I responded that he was smart to enjoy life while he was still young and beautiful.

"You think I'm beautiful?" he asked.

"Yes, and it's pretty clear you do, too," I answered.

"Well," he said, smiling mischievously, "I've always had a thing for guys with beards."

We learned a lot about him during our visits to the cafe. He was twenty-six. He had dropped out of college to move to Jackson Hole. When he decided it was time to grow up, he moved back in with his parents and re-started school at Johnson County Community College.

He played the guitar. He had a staff with notes tattoo-ed on his left wrist. When asked if he had other tattoos, he coyly answered "I'll never tell."

He referred to himself as a future fat boy. Pinching the ten or so extra pounds around his mid-section, he said, "Look at me. I'm only 26. I eat smart. I work out. I've still got this. I always have. I always will. As I get older, it'll get bigger."

"Just think of it as love handles," I answered.

He responded with a smile. He started to add something, but then stopped.

When David and I dined at Europa, Ky always made us feel like we were his favorite guests. We certainly loved the attention.

Three hundred and fifteen days after David died, Andrea texted "happy birthday" and then, later, "tonight's the night . . . it's time." I knew she was right. I had been a hermit for far too long. I loved my cat, but he wasn't enough for me. My love language, after all, was physical touch. A cat could provide only so much of what I needed.

Still, I was pensive as we drove toward the cafe. I loathed the possibility I'd run into someone who didn't know. Because I had been so isolated, I had made that possibility much more likely.

I was stunned to be greeted by Ky. I assumed he had moved on by now. I didn't expect a twenty-six year old man to still be hosting at a cafe, over a year after he had started. Host seemed like a temporary job through which one cycled easily.

"Hey," he said, extending his hand joyfully. "It's been a long time. I thought you had moved away."

"I'm still here."

"Where's David?"

"He's not."

"Oh," he said, his face betraying disappointment. "That's too bad. I thought you two were great together."

I knew what he thought. I considered letting him continue to think what he thought, so I could avoid the truth. But, I decided it would be unfair to leave him mis-thinking that David had left me or that I had left him.

"It's not that, Ky," I said. "David died. Last January. From a massive stroke."

I didn't expect the tears that filled his eyes or the deep, warm hug that he wrapped around me. The combination caused trears to sting my eyes.

"Oh, my God," he said into my neck. "I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea."

When he ended the hug, he took both of my cheeks in his hands, stared straight into my eyes, and asked "Are you alright?" I was staggered by the intensity and intimacy of the moment. Tears again stung my eyes.

"I'm getting there," I said, my eyes overflowing and tears running down my face. "It's been almost a year. I'm trying to return to the land of the living."

His hand in the middle of my back led us to our table. Not long after we were seated, Michael was tableside.

"Hey," he said. "Ky told me what happened. I cannot express the breadth and depth of my sympathy. But, I'm glad you're here. We've missed you."

"It's his birthday," Andrea said.

"Really?"

"Yep," I answered. "Fifty four big ones."

"You're in your fifties?" Ky asked, genuine surprise on his face. "Wow. I'd have guessed ten years younger."

"You're flattering me."

"I mean it."

"Then thank you, I think."

"You're welcome, I know" he concluded, winking at me.

After that, Ky left us be. As she always did, Andrea made me laugh throughout dinner. Since David died, Andrea had been a stalwart and a trooper. She refused to leave me alone. When I refused to answer my mobile, she kept calling. When I refused to answer my door, she kept banging. Many nights, she rocked me to sleep, my troubled sleep brought on only by the exhaustion wrought on by my endless sobbing.

She would not relent. When I wanted nothing other than for her to shut up and go away, she stood on my stoop, banging and banging and banging some more. If I didn't love her so much, I'd have hated her. If I had lost her, I'd have lost myself.

I was falling. She was the only tether. Her relentlessness meant the tether never snapped, even if it frayed.

In my darkest moments, I was a complete asshole to her. A lesser human would have let me fall. She held on tight.

I shared my obeisance for her relentlessness over dinner. She smirked me away.

"You're my Will," she said, referencing Will and Grace. "I'd do anything for you. And, by anything, I mean anything, Danny Boy."

In times of strife, she always called me Danny Boy. It reminded me of Billy when she did.

"And you're my Grace, my lifelong non-romantic life partner. I'd do anything for you, too, Smelly Cat," I said, referring to the nickname from Friends. I had given her the moniker during our first night out together, right after she pushed out a repulsive fart in my car.

"Speaking of which," she said. "It's a bit early for you to be committing to a non-romantic life. I know you miss David, and I'm sure he misses you more. But, you're only fifty. It's too early to retire from the great things in life. And I think Grizzly Adams thinks you hung the moon."

"Grizzly Adams?"

"Yes. The host who's either pretending to be a lumberjack or the lumberjack who's pretending to be a host. He's smitten with you. And objectively adorable."

"He's half my age."

"He didn't know that."

"I did."

"I'm not saying you should make a life with him. I'm only suggesting you make a night with him."

Other than to roll my eyes, I did not respond. She filled the silence.

"I can see what you're thinking. David would approve. He'd cheer you on. It's time, Danny Boy. You gave time to the dead. It's time to give time to the living."

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'd feel so disloyal. Like I was cheating."

"I'm sorry, Danny, but that's just ridiculous. David is gone. He's been gone. And he's not coming back. Ever. Finding someone to step into his place would honor him, not dishonor him. I mean no offense, but he was the best person I ever knew. He wouldn't want you to suffer. It'd slay him. He'd want you to live life to the fullest. He'd be so happy that you wanted someone to replace him, or at least part of him. He'd encourage you to look forward, not backward. He loved you more than I've ever known someone to love another. He'd want your life to be fireworks and ice cream, not sadness and regret."

"I think Ky is straight."

"He's at least bi."

"I don't think so."

"You don't see the way he looks at you."

I watched him work the restaurant. I thought she was wrong. For gaydar, I watch who people watch. If a couple is in a restaurant and the male watches another male move around the room, his girlfriend or wife is likely in for a rude awakening at some point. When David had noticed the same thing, he had always offered that "someone should let her know he's about ready to fly right out of here."

Ky seemed to be watching everyone and no one. He did not give off any vibe, much less a gay one.

Smelly and I crashed through two bottles of Chianti and two duck confits. I had to admit, it was good to be out and about again. We had our uneaten duck boxed and ordered two lemon cakes to go. When Smelly dropped me off, we realized we had left it all on our table. She asked if I wanted her to drive me the six blocks back to run in. I hesitated and then said no. I was too close to the safety of my home.

I went in, slipped into my sleep wear (a t-shirt and cut off flannel pajama pants), and poured myself a glass of wine. Not long after I settled into the couch, I nodded off.

I was awakened by a knock at door to the font porch, which seemed like my front door, but was not (my front door was on the side of my house). When I realized what was going on, I was surprised to see Ky at my door, holding a bag.

"Hold on," I said. "I have to go turn off the alarm."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, once I had returned.

"You forgot your food."

"Well, it's awfully nice of you to bring it by, but totally unnecessary," I said, taking the bag. "How'd you find me?"

"Easy. It's 2021. Everyone's findable."

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

"I'm not much of a wine drinker, but I'll have a whiskey, if you've got it."

"I do," I said. I had been a widower for almost a year. I had a fully stocked liquor cabinet. "Rocks or neat?"

"Neat."

I grabbed one of my Tiffany tumblers and over-poured a whiskey. I handed it to Ky and sat opposite him in one of the leather chairs that flanked my fireplace. I could see the fire flicker in his hair and his beard.

We talked about everything and nothing. The minutes stretched into hours.

We talked about how David and I had met. We talked about my history with men and women.

We talked about the fluidity of Ky's time as a snow bunny. The instructors had lived in close proximity, and there was a lot of promiscuity. Ky had batted from both sides.

But, he admitted he'd never been in a relationship. He'd never felt either the need or the urge to do so.

"I prefer to be alone," he said. "I always have. Even as a kid, I thought other kids ruined my games. I preferred to play alone. . . . Besides, I've never wanted the bullshit that goes with a relationship," he said. "I get sex when I need or want it. I've never wanted the compromises that are required to be with someone else."

"You're young."

"I don't think that's why. I think it's generational. I just don't want to make sacrifices. I like my freedom and I'm super selfish about it. I get to do what I want when I want. I don't have to vet my choices through anyone or worry about how they affect anyone. I'm not sure why anyone gives that up."

"I did. And I loved it. A lot. And I miss it so much."

"You guys were my favorite couple, by far. You seemed like you were really happy, like you enjoyed being with each other and didn't need anyone else."

"We were really happy," I said. "Each day, we were happier than we were the day before."

Sadness swept over me. Ky obviously saw it in my face.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward and taking my hands between his. "I didn't mean to make you sad. I'm new to this. I don't know what to say."

"It's okay," I said, enjoying the roughness of his hands against mine. "No one knows what to say. And, there's no way to avoid saying what you shouldn't. My memory is a minefield. There's no way to tell where to step. And one false step sets off a bomb. It's odd, really. I can be going along, not thinking about David at all. Then, I'll hear a song, or smell a smell, or see a sight, and I'll cry and cry and cry. I think that, at some point, my tear ducts will run dry, and I'll be all cried out. But, I'm not there yet."

"I've never lost anyone."

"You're lucky. It's hard to learn to be alone again. I spent half my life with him by my side. He always rooted for me. He always supported me. He was a mama bear when it came to me."

He didn't answer. He just let go of my hand, leaned back in the chair, and took a large swig of whiskey.

He checked his big, clunky watch and commented on how late it was.

"3 a.m.?" I asked, surprised by how long we'd been talking. "I haven't been up this late since New Year's Eve, 1999. I'm not much of a night owl."

I was lying. Since David died, I had spent many nights wandering the house until I was drunk enough to pass out.

And he had died. He hadn't "passed" or "moved on" or "left us," he had died. That's what people do. They die. The euphemisms for death had initially annoyed me and now made me blind with rage. Of what was everyone so afraid? Why all the pussyfooting around, pretending death was not death. The opposite of alive is dead. It's not passed away or passed on. That's just a delicate way of trying to make the truth less than it is, which is that David had died. Too unexpected and too young, he had died. And he was, now and forever more, dead.

"Me, either. I like to sleep too much," he said, polishing off his third whiskey. "I'm officially drunk," he added, holding the empty tumbler up to show he had drained it.

"Me, too," I agreed. I was. I had drank a lot of wine. "You're welcome to stay, if you don't want to Uber home."

"You think I can't drive?"

"You probably can, but I know you shouldn't."

"I'll stay, if you don't mind. I don't feel like heading back out into the cold, after being all warm and cozy by the fire."

"I don't mind at all."

We - I - had two spare bedrooms. I showed Ky to the better one - the one with its own bathroom - and then headed down the hall to the master.

I was safety conscious. I slept with the door closed, in case of fire. I had moved the cat's litter box into my bedroom, so we could snuggle behind closed doors. We were asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I was startled awake at 7, less than four hours later, by a gentle knocking on my door. "Dan?" Ky asked.

"Yeah," I answered, sliding my boxers on so I did not open the door in my nude.

"I gotta head out. Thanks for the conversation and the whiskey."

"Hold on, I'll show you out."

"No need. I can show myself out."

I listened to the creaking of the floor as he walked down the hall and down the stairs. I put my hands to the door and rested my forehead against it. I was alone in my house again. I had enjoyed the Ky interregnum.

Two weeks later, I made a mental excuse to eat my Friday lunch at the Europa bar. Ky greeted me with a big smile, as always.

"You trimmed your beard?" I asked.

"Yeah, it was getting a bit unruly."

"It looks good."

"I like it better when it's a little messy. Right now, it looks like I'm trying too hard."

I surveyed his casualness. "I don't think you ever look like you're trying too hard."

"You're sweet."

I sat at the bar and talked to Ky in passing as he hosted. While he was refilling my wine glass, he talked about loose plans to climb Machu Pichu. He was trying to decide whether to do it.

"You should," I said. "While you have the chance. If you wait, the chance may never come."

He paused and looked at me. He knew to what and to whom I was referring. We would do none of the things we had planned on doing. We would do none of things we put off doing.

He moved toward me and again took my hands in his. Neither of us spoke, but his eyes said he was sorry. Mine said "I know."

That night, my re-reading of "The Seven Story Mountain" was interrupted by Ky's knock on my porch door. It was 10:15. He was headed home from work and decided to swing by with a bottle of Cabernet and a bottle of whiskey. As we had during this threshold visit, we drank in the chairs by the fire and talked. Again, we talked about nothing and everything. As he had before, he stayed the night. And, as he had before, he left the next morning before I opened my bedroom door.

The weeks went on like that. Every Friday night, Ky knocked on my porch door after work, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Most nights, he also brought a pastry we ate with our hands.