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I ran into him, quite by accident, when I returned to the city after more than a decade away. He looked remarkably well, but then again, he always did.
"Time has been good to you, my friend," was all I said about it, but he knew what I meant. He merely cocked his head, smiled, but made no attempt to explain. Not that I expected him to.
We found an open bar nearby, in a building that once housed a haberdashery, I think. As we drank, he began recounting stories from our past: cases we'd worked, people we'd known, and the way the world had been, back in the day. I felt a strong sense of nostalgia sweep through me, sharp and sweet. I pushed it aside as best I could. There was no going back, for me.
"How is he?" I asked, finally.
"He's fine. Cantankerous as usual," he replied.
"I don't suppose that will ever change." I meant it as a joke, or a wry observation, perhaps. The faint bitterness that clung to my words surprised me, but not him. His eyes held regret, apology, and other things that were never going to be spoken out loud.
Instead, he simply said, "No. He'll always be... who he is."
"Of course." Before he felt obligated to invite me to the brownstone, I held out my hand. "I should get going. Amtrak waits for no man. Give him my regards, won't you?"
He clasped my hand warmly in both his own. "Sure. Next time you're in town, you be sure to call, Saul." I nodded, although we both knew it would never happen.
I walked to the station, losing myself in the growing crowds of commuters who were heading home to the suburbs. As I waited on the platform, I thought about them. About two men, as they would always be.
Lovin' babe.
My train arrived, saving me from thinking any more.