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Years ago, I was involved in producing plays at a small theater in Pasadena. In that context, I met Jay, who was the theater critic for a local paper. Jay was alienated from his family, and therefore had written under a series of pseudonyms, until he finally had his name legally changed. He wanted to quit, and I wanted write, so he arranged for me to take his place.

We became lovers, although we were never really in love. The old building where he lived had once been a hotel, the abandoned front desk still in place on the ground floor. The rooms had been converted to "studio" apartments with the addition of little kitchenettes. I never asked him if he owned the furniture or if it was included.

A year went by. He quietly reconnected with his old girlfriend, and I, a bit less quietly, started seeing other people. There was no drama, no argument, no need to collect personal items from each other's apartments. We hadn't even left toothbrushes.

A few weeks later, he sent me a postcard asking me to call. I called, but the phone just rang and rang. Jay had no answering machine, he was out a lot, and he never answered the phone if he had company.

Sometimes something reminds me of him, and I wonder what it was he wanted to say to me.