I don’t have thick, fancy stationery, so I grab a notebook, one of the envelopes I use for my business, and sit by my desk. I write his address on the envelope in block letters -- my cursive is atrocious and unreadable -- and without thinking it over more, I put pen to paper.

Isidor,
Meet me at our place. Saturday, 9 am. Breakfast is on me.
Henri.

I tear out the letter and stuff it into the envelope before I can change my mind.

It’s short and not very eloquent, but I get my point across, and he knows I’m a man of few words in my written conversations. And whatever I’m going to say to him -- not that I know what I’m going to say -- is going to be said while I’m looking at his face; I want to see his reaction in real life.

And if he doesn’t show? Then I’ll know.

But of course, he shows up.

* * * *

I arrive early at our place, Bread, which is a bakery-slash-café that makes the best breakfast sandwiches and pastries in a five-hundred-kilometer radius. Isidor brought me here for our real first date when we’d decided that we wanted to be more than just two people who fucked. We both loved the place and kept coming back -- their coffee is excellent and their cinnamon rolls to die for -- but since our relationship ended, I’ve only stopped by and bought takeout a few times. Enough to know the place looks unchanged and their pastries are as great as ever.

Our usual table is thankfully free when I arrive eighteen minutes before nine, and I buy a cup of coffee before I sit, but I can’t make myself drink it. My fingers tap-tap-tap on the table, my right knee is bouncing, and I can’t take my eyes off the door. It’s difficult for me to breathe, the coffee aroma sneaking its way up my nose turns my stomach, and I push away the cup.

What if he doesn’t come? What if he had a previous engagement, something he can’t break? What if the letter had been a drunken thing that he regretted the minute he’d sent it?

What if he does come?

Both options make me nauseous.

I tap my smartwatch. Eight forty-nine. I lay my hand on my knee to keep it still, but that makes my other leg start bouncing instead. My nerves are buzzing like an improperly grounded wire, and my circuits are close to overloading.

At eight-fifty-one, the bells hanging from the door announce his arrival. He’s early, as though he knew I needed to be put out of my misery, and oh my God, the sight of him stops every nervous tick I’ve displayed since I woke up at a quarter past four this morning.

His eyes find me immediately, and he freezes. I catch a quick glimpse of the hardness in his gaze before it melts away completely, replaced by softness and relief, as though he wasn’t sure I’d be here despite my invitation.

I stand, and that gets him moving. In a heartbeat, he’s right in front of me, so close I can reach out and touch him. But I don’t. Not yet. Even though my fingers are twitching.

“Henri.” His voice is deeper than I remember, and thick, as though he’s having a hard time keeping his emotions in check. The roll of his R as pronounced as ever.

“Hey.” I’m no better; raspy and throaty, barely unable to speak at all. My eyes burn worse than the time I chopped chili and got some in my eye. I have to blink and avert my gaze.