weather for a few seconds, now and then.”
“And we won’t meet socially.”
“Here’s to that.”

“But suddenly it’s a nice night, old Leonard Douglas, customer of mine.”

“Here’s to Harry Stadler.” I raised my glass. “Wherever he goes from here.”
“Bless me. Bless you.”

We drank and simply sat there for another five minutes, warm and comfortable as old friends who had suddenly found that a long long time ago we had loved the same beautiful librarian who had touched our books and touched our cheeks. But the memory was fading.

“It’s going to rain.” I arose with my wallet.
Stadler stared until I put the wallet back in my jacket.
“Thanks and good night.”
“Thanks to you,” he said, “I’m not so lonely now, no matter what.”

I gulped the rest of my wine, gasped with pleasure, ruffled Stadler’s hair with a quick hand, and ran.
At the door I turned. He saw this and shouted across the room.
“Rememberme?”

I pretended to pause, scratch my head, cudgel my memory. Then I pointed at him and cried:
“The butcher!”
He lifted his drink.
“Yes!” he called. “The butcher!”

I hurried downstairs and across the parquetry floor which was too beautiful to walk on, and out into a storm.

I walked in the rain for a long while, face up.

Hell, I thought, I don’t feel so lonelymyself!

Then, soaked through, and laughing, I ducked and ran all the way back to my hotel.

1997

The end