February 18, 2024

Lisbon, Portugal. Age 25

I met Jay on the rooftop of the Pantheon. That fact alone — the romance of an encounter drenched in chance — was too serendipitous not to pursue.

The day was originally meant to be riddled with storms and gloom, and I was meant to be sitting in a drab cafe, and he was meant to be on some boat tour along the south coast. But out of this divine combination of miracles the sun came out, the cafe was closed, and his tour was canceled due to the threat of rain. We both changed our plans, both went alone, both lied about our age to save one euro on the ticket. Within a minute of the other we climbed the same five flights of stairs, ducked through the same door, sat on the same steps to marvel at the same view.

A German couple had offered to take my photo, then noticed him a few feet away and asked if we were together. No, I laughed, and when I glanced over to see who they were talking about, I saw the sharp haircut and the green coat and the JanSport backpack. I saw the grin matching my own amusement. And I don't know why I said it, but some brave ounce of my judgment asked if he wanted to take a picture anyway. Some humored ounce of his judgment agreed.

We crowded together, I tilted my head, he gripped my shoulder. Once the photo was taken, the phone given back, I turned to fully face him and noticed his height — how evenly he stood on both feet. We exchanged names and hellos. Then we both laughed, both blushed, both leaned over the stone railing to watch a city drenched in flaxen light when there were no obvious words left to say.

On the staircase down he asked if I was hungry, and I lied (I'd eaten lunch the hour before) and told him I was starved. So we departed together, too, shoulder brushing shoulder, and found a cafe in a downhill alley too narrow and twisted for cars to fit. It was a few hours of ordering fish and bread and cheese and the cheapest reserva wine they offered, recounting the most recent chapters of our life stories to the other. He lives in Quebec, has a nephew and a job. Back in November he ended things with an ex-fiancée (I didn't pry) and has been traveling around the west of Europe for the last month. His final flight — Iberia Airlines, direct to Barcelona — was scheduled for this morning.

I avoided thinking about the inevitable until the bill was paid. When we left, the sky was all dark plum and cigarette smoke; locals were lounged against tiled walls, sun-dried laundry hung cold and still in the evening gloom. I was intentional about walking slowly, dragging out the fated goodbye, but before I could really look at his face in the low meringue of the streetlamps we were at the corner that divided my journey from his. The sidewalk forked. It would only make sense to stay together if we were going to the same place.

Instead of a goodbye I asked if I could kiss him, and he told me he couldn't afford to fall for someone he would never see again. The boundary made sense. So instead we hugged — an action too intimate and extended to save my spoiled heart — and he thanked me for the conversation. I thanked him for the photo. The street split in two, and we continued on separate paths home.