We sat. In the back of the fiber arts store. Next to big windows. Overlooking the bay. Watching birds at feeders after the first snow. And we caught up. On an entire year of each other’s lives. Her time living in Paris. Visits to the Louvre. No lines at the Eiffel Tower in the low season. My travels. Haiti. Palestine. Egypt. Her job at a center for domestic violence. How they were rocked with sadness by a murder. Of an infant. The potato leek soup was warm. But in truth, not very good. I talked about the whole other life. I sometimes dream of. Reading books. Writing. Making assemblage art. A life. That probably looks. A lot like retirement. Which is distant. We each went back to work. With hopes of making the time. To see each other 2 or 3 times a year. Instead of just. Once.