I saw him from afar. He had always stood apart from the others, and the years had chiseled his features even more. I looked at him lovingly and was pleased to see he was as beautiful as the day I had met him. He had gone on with his life, pursuing his interests with passion. I had stayed behind, and he had moved on.
He was aloof at times and loving at others, with those eyes that held the warning of a retreating streak, a cruelty at odds with his vulnerability. Women and also men liked him, loved him, pursued him. No one could imagine the brutally cold desert of his absence once his desire ebbed. That had happened to me, and I had paid a price. He belonged to those born to be loved, desired and cherished, those who gave their bodies while keeping their hearts and souls unmoved. And there was a hunger for love in him that had taken up his whole being, like a lonely child trying to make up for a loveless childhood. But I had wanted and loved him just as he was. The only thing I had not expected was the blow of his detachment, the blow that left me reeling.
Collecting myself, I followed him. I saw him leave his house, do his shopping and come back. Keeping my distance, just content to watch him, I enjoyed the precision of his movements when chopping vegetables, uncorking a bottle of wine, doing all the simple things that he had always done so well. He had been perfect in my mind. The years had given him…
