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Over weekend brunch with my best friend, she leaned in, eyes sparkling with gossip.
"Hey, heard the latest?"
"About Alex and that tattoo girl?"
My spoon stilled in my latte.
Her tone dripped disdain.
"Chloe had a boy."
"But the baby has a severe heart defect. Surgery costs one-twenty grand."
Outside, maple leaves drifted down.
I didn't speak.
One-twenty grand. Pocket change for the old Alexander. Barely covered a bottle at his club back then.
Later, I heard they fought constantly over the money.
Alexander blamed Chloe for drinking during pregnancy. Chloe screamed Alexander was useless.
Once, it got physical. He shoved her down the stairs. She called the cops, got checked out. Made sure everyone knew.
Finally, Chloe ran off one dawn.
Just a note, "Can't take this poverty anymore."
The baby didn't make it through the winter.
Alexander searched for her like a madman.
Three months later, they found her in a sleazy nightclub down south.
Arm hooked through a sixty-year-old Taiwanese businessman's, laughing like a hyena.
Alexander charged in. She was lighting the old man's cigar.
He grabbed her hair, dragging her out. Security beat him bloody, but he wouldn't let go.
When the cops came, he spat blood, laughing wildly, "Run! Run to the ends of the earth! I'll make you pay for our son!"
In the deep autumn garden, leaves lay thick.
I was silent for a long time. Finally nodded, my voice flat.
"I see."
So their "true love" wasn't even worth one-twenty grand.
The steam rose from my tea.
In the hazy warmth, I seemed to see eighteen-year-old Alexander.
Wearing his faded school jacket, waving goodbye at the classroom door, smile bright and clean.
I blinked.
The steam cleared. The window was empty.
Only my friend watching me, concerned.
"Okay?"
I took a sip of tea.
It had gone cold.
Some people, once lost, are gone forever.
The boy who brought me sweet potatoes in the snow... died somewhere along the way.
