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I thought of him as my lover, although he never said he loved me. When I was feeling concerned, I would ask him what we were doing, what he wanted, where this was going. He was uncomfortable with such questions, but if I was direct, he would answer.

No, he wasn’t seeing anyone else. No, he wasn’t having sex with anyone else. No, he didn’t want to.

But he didn’t introduce me to anyone in his life. Even when I asked him to. And he didn’t tell his family about me, although I knew all about them.

When I was cold, he would give me his jacket. When I would step off the curb into the street while there were cars whizzing by, he would reach for my hand and pull me back. Eventually, he reached for my hand in other public spaces, but he never called me his girlfriend. He didn’t like titles. He said I was his “lady friend.” And he called himself my “gentleman friend.” He was younger than me, but this terminology made him seem very old.

I was enjoying my career, good health, long trail runs with my Australian shepherd, a vibrant social life and the quiet time it took to read a book a week. I appreciated that he wasn’t needy, that he didn’t call just to check in. He didn’t send “good morning beautiful” texts when he needed attention or wish me sweet dreams in Bitmojis to see if I was home.

When we texted each other, it was to exchange information about when and where we would meet. When I asked him how he was doing, he answered in one or two words. When we were together, he often told me how much he appreciated my low expectations.