For Mali, on the occasion of her 365 finale
Years later, we met for dinner. Would we even recognize each other? Sfuzzi (the restaurant) was still new and still hot, tucked into Union Station’s beautiful mezzanine. Maybe it was 1990.
Our chumminess quickly resurfaced as we caught up: work, marriages, this, that.
After, I suggested a walk—maybe to the Vietnam memorial, which I’d never seen at night. Had he been there? No. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Let’s go, I said. We can leave anytime you want.
We walked the length of the wall and back. Black granite, black sky.
He pointed to a name.
“That guy was a real asshole,” he said. “But no one deserves to die that way.”