at bar elba, across the street from where the hotel malmot used to be, i was sipping two fingers of bourbon alone when a man in a green sports coat came up to me. are you elle?, he asked. moments ago he'd been little more than a dim shade set against the dying sun, lurching somewhere in a booth, peeved and alone. i'd caught him staring earlier and assumed what all women of new york assume when men stare from a distance. i sensed his approach and—clutching a nearby ashtray—steeled myself for most anything. but not this. for i’d misread the face, suddenly furrowed in apology, twisted in fear. he nipped his folding chins beneath his forehead, and his forlorn eyes darted up at me: are you elle?

yes, i lied. yes, i am.

he let out an immense sigh of relief. i’m sorry, he said, you said you’d be wearing blue, so i didn’t approach. i was ten minutes late getting here, i couldn’t catch a cab from midtown, i thought you’d left already.

sorry, i lied again, the blue dress was soiled. i couldn’t wear it today. i forgot to mention it. odd how quickly it all came to me, the instinct to run headlong into the surf, to wade waist deep in the pool.

he nodded his small, balding head and removed from his jacket’s inside pocket a half dozen polaroid photographs. he laid them out along the bar, slapping them down like he were dealing blackjack in monte carlo. the pictures were old, faded from time and wear. their locations varied—a bench in central park, some remote corner of the rainforest, a house party. each contained some varying assembly of individuals, and yet constant from photo to photo were two women, often wrapped arm in arm, side by side. and yes, one of them looked quite a bit like me, or rather "me" as i was some twenty-odd years ago.

she would want you to have these, he said. to be honest, he went on, i didn’t meet her until she was much older, but she spoke often of you and your adventures together. the places you went, the friends you shared, the lives you lived before she even knew my name. please, take them.

i looked them over one at a time. thank you, i said. i will treasure them always.

the man nodded and left. i took the pictures home and put them into frames and hung them on the walls of my bedroom. i look at them every morning and tell myself stories to fill in the gaps. to give value to his gift, and to show my respect for the dead.