That Fall

That fall, after not seeing him for six years, BD resurfaced in my life in Paris. He was a writer of some sort now, older, but still handsome in that lupine way of his. We met at a bar in the Marais, and we talked till all the chatter around us subsided and it got too cold to sit outside wearing just a T-shirt under my trench coat. He didn’t express any interest in what brought me to Paris at all, nor asked me any but the most cursory of questions about my life now, as he walked me back through the Les Halles area to my hotel. Everyday we met, he would show me some of the tears from magazines and papers with his byline, his great works, all in French, political commentary, art reviews. He never wanted to eat anything, but would smoke incessant French cigarettes. And suddenly I was reminded of all the parties we'd been to once, all the reggae bars, all the dark nights, all the different cars, all the drinks, all his strange fellows... where are they now the fellas?