Angst fills me when I accidentally (purposely?) bump into Alex Lee’s right shoulder at Segun China on River Street in Minotaur, a small northern suburb of Pittsburgh. Angst because he recognizes me but won’t say my name -- Bernard “Boom” Daye. Angst because he has a wife now and two little girls -- the girls must be around five or six years old. Twins, of course. Angst because I’m about to throw up in the back of my mouth and I’m no longer hungry for the buffet dinner. Angst because he’s not real, but he is real. Angst because --

He heads out of the bathroom at the restaurant as I make my entrance. The narrow hallway creates a tunnel of burgundy tile and dismal light. Overhead rains a cliché of Chinese music that one hears at every buffet but no one really pays attention to. Smells of fried chicken, roasted pork, and soy sauce take over the establishment.

“Alex,” I stop and whisper his name. “Alex Lee. It really is you.”

Two feet past me he stops. Doesn’t immediately turn around. Obviously recognizes my voice. Knows me. Maybe doesn’t want to know me. Probably won’t even turn around. But he does.

“Yeah, it’s me. Boom. From eight years ago. You’re not dreaming this. I’m not a ghost. And apparently you aren’t either.”

He’s still good looking, masculinely handsome: five-ten, thick head of brown hair, no silver as of yet, bushy eyebrows (always uncontainable), moustache, no dimples, sort of flat and wide nose with large nostrils, strong shoulders, thin build with some muscle, solid chest, no fat as of yet, thirty-four this year, same age as me. Doesn’t look a day over thirty-seven. Good for him.

“Boom,” he says, smiles; it lights up his entire face with his pretty boy smile, which becomes electric. He shows off his magazine-right teeth: perfectly white, no chips, always did floss.

He closes the gap between us. We shake hands. Both are clammy and wobbly with nerves. Pulsing. Pulsing. Pulsing.

I ask him, “I thought you were in Las Vegas doing accounting work for the government. Something with solar power.”

He nonchalantly nods. Our hands do not break apart. Nor do I want them to. “Back here in Minotaur for a week. Seventieth birthday party for mom.”

“Good old Peggy Lee. An angel. I recall her birthday is on the twenty-seventh. And I remember that she caught us messing around all the time when she shouldn’t have.”

Pause. He checks me out from head to toes: blonde, blue-eyed, beefcake. Always was. Always will be. Born with what I got. Can’t help it. I’m not a gym monkey, but I do like to take care of what I have. He accomplishes a double-up/down of me. “You look good, Boom. Haven’t changed a bit. Baywatch material all the way. You’re still riding your bike, I see.”

“Try almost every day.”

“How’s the right knee?”

“Wobbly. Effed up. It never will be the same.”

“You still living off the money from that milk company driver who hit you? What did you win in court, three million?”

I shake my head. “Not living off any of it. I invested it. Tripled it. That’s what I do now. Play with money to make more money.”

“You have an English degree. And now you play with money. I didn’t see that coming.”

“Agreed. I didn’t know I had the skills for investing. What can I say?”

“So we both work with numbers now?”

I can’t help myself and roll a thumb over his wrist: slow, passionate motion, everlasting effort. “I guess we do.”

“You ever write that mystery you wanted? Bury a Body.”

I shake my head. “You remember that?”

“How can I forget? You talked about it for a year. Maybe two years. I can tell you everything about that book. The two main characters. The cemetery where the body was buried in chapter three. Everything.”

“I haven’t worked on it in years. The idea got lost in the shuffle. I’m sure you know how that happens.”

“You should do that book, Boom. It’s a great idea. Readers would enjoy it.”

Some beefy guy in a football jersey steps around us, excuses himself. Grins at our twosome. He probably sees us holding hands and says, “You two are a cute couple.”

I growl at him, “We used to be. Something weird happened between us.”

“Still pissed that I was confused about liking girls and guys back then, huh?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I nod. “Yes. A little.”

“Or a lot. You could never get over that. Especially Trish.”

I shrug. “Or a lot. And yes, you with Trish drove me mad. Are you still with her?”

It’s his turn to shrug. “Married her. Divorced her. We still talk every week.”

“Any kids with her?”

He nods. “It’s why we talk every week. We have two girls together. Beth and Zep.”

I chuckle. “Let me guess. Beth because of that Kiss song? And Zep, because of your love for Led Zeppelin?”

“Can’t get anything past you.”

“Because I fell in love with you and knew you in and out. Everything. All of you.”

Does he blush? I can’t tell because of the shitty lighting in the hallway.

Eventually he says, “We were in in love. That was a long time ago. Eight years ago.”

“The best three years of my life. You rocked every part of my world, inside and out. Plus, you took my virginity. Rather, I gave that up to you. You took my heart.”