I saw someone who reminded me of you today. He sat down next to me at a dinner theater I went to with an old friend. It turned out that they, too, were old friends. When the play started and my old friend had to run the lights, I was told, my new old friend would keep me company. Over dinner, my old friend started talking about haircuts, and my new old friend suggested a haircut like his own--Navy-regulation, I noticed. When my old friend begged for a trip to the barber on base, my suspicions were confirmed.

The resemblance started there, and, one by one, others drew their lines through the evening like connect-the-dots. He had that way of striking up an instant camaraderie with the other men at the table, being with them more that I was, although he had come alone. He had that way of talking to everyone else, but always acknowledging my presence in a respectful kind of silence filled with its own vocabulary. He had that way that said he knew about the sympathy your face must wear when something that sounds like your voice tells me across 1,125 miles of static-filled phone lines that you are worried that I'm "not getting out enough," and the half-shock, half-amusement I'm sure your face wears when something that sounds like my voice tells you what crazy "thought had crossed my mind" this week. He had that way of looking at me straight on, of half-shading his eyes, of smiling crookedly at my twisted humor; I wondered if it meant the same thing as in our own hours-long conversations of non-words.

My reverie was interrupted when my old friend asked me if he should get a haircut like that. I said no, that it wouldn't look right on him. My new old friend, now egged on by our never-ending sarcasm, pretended to take offense and accused me of saying he was ugly and had a "weird-shaped head." I denied it, but I must have lost the argument, because I ended up in a sort of half-headlock. His rather strong arm, although wrapped tightly around my neck instead of my shoulders, reminded me of yours, and for just a second, I almost thought it was. That second left its shadow flickering in my mind the rest of the dinner and the play. The only light came from the spotlight and from the candle I'd nagged him into relighting after my old friend had won it and blew it out, and although I couldn't see him, I knew he was there. The actors filled the silence with their speeches, but our conversation continued, smirks at the mistakes and laughter in tune to "Pore Jud is daid...." When the lights came back on and my old friend was ready to leave, my new old friend smiled distantly and said, "See ya later," walking confidently in his own direction.

I followed my old friend out to the truck, laughing, always laughing, but missing you. I got in and turned my head to the quiet street, willing you to walk out from one of its darkened corners, but when you didn't, I looked away and changed the radio station. When I was finally alone at the end of the night, and by alone, you understand that I mean with my family, that dull feeling of without-you-ness started to settle in, as it had every night for the last three months. As of late, it had begun to rub raw the space it had once so comfortably filled, the space that disappeared on those rare occasions when we were together. In short, I was depressed because I couldn't see you. So, I flipped on the tube to distract myself, and after a few minutes of David Letterman telling jokes to the snappy repartee of Paul Schaffer and the CBS Orchestra, my attention faded until they cut to a commercial. You know it, I'm sure. It was the one where that super-thin supermodel whispers through super-pale lips, "Haven't I always seen you somewhere?"

I saw him, that man sitting next to me, and then I saw you. I saw you in him, and in the glow of the television in the dark room, and in the waves at the beach, and in that unconscious way I've started to drive with my left hand only.... I saw you and I smiled. "Yes," I said, "that says it all."