It was the way he looked when I opened the door. That was the first thing that seemed off. He had filled out more, looked healthier. His eyes were almost vibrant, not the gray circles I remembered them. At the time it didn’t seem odd that he was there. I had always expected he’d pop back up somewhere. What seemed odd was that he wasn’t strung out or looking for money. He was just standing on my doorstep at nine in the morning, holding two cups of coffee, asking to come in.
Had I been thinking, or at least had my own cup of coffee yet, I would have said no. I would have told him it had been seven years, and it was time to lose my number and my address. But I widened the opening in the door, and showed him where the couch was, and sat across the room, completely clueless about what this was about.