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I would see him sometimes in the morning on the way to work, at my stop in Carroll Gardens. I would fidget on the other side of the concrete pole separating us as the F train pulled up and watch him when the crowds parted: He was tall with black hair and a beard. Big hands. He listened to music. He read. He was never with another woman.

Seven years passed. Sometimes months would go by and he would disappear. Occasionally I would ride the train with some other guy and hope to see him so he would see me with this other guy.

I never did. I also never saw him in the neighborhood, although he clearly lived nearby.

When we finally met on that fateful Saturday, my voice shook. He was with my old co-worker, the woman he used to date, Lana, and her newish husband, Max, Ronen’s best friend to whom he had introduced her. She and Ronen had not been a match, but Lana and Max were. And Ronen was part of that love.

Lana said hello and Ronen followed and I said, “I see you on the subway all the time!” Too loudly, I’m sure.

“I see you all the time,” he said in a voice that was not at all the voice I had imagined him having. And his smile — it brightened his face like a light bulb. I found myself squinting as it shone down on me. And smiling back.