The first time I met him was at a conference for work.

I didn’t notice him at first, which is odd, given that no one attractive or under the age of forty ever attends these things. We actually met on our way out as we waited for the elevator. The first thing that struck me was how young he looked and then the second thing, of course, was his looks. He had an air of distinction that belied his boyish face. As we walked into the elevator, he asked what I thought of the conference. (That’s when I noticed his accent.) Did he really care what I had to say about secularism and Turkish politics? I just smiled and said it was fine. Then we made some more small talk about our jobs. At least, I tried making small talk as I hid behind the curtain of my bangs and juggled my coat, notebooks, and bags. He lit a cigarrette as we walked out of the building and I tried to string non sensical statements about work. Then we exchanged business cards and parted ways.

Fast forward to a year later.

I’m sitting in a conference room, shoveling the standard conference fare of pastries and fruit into my mouth, when I notice the patrician profile of a familiar looking gentlemen. It is The Russian. He is in a conversation with an overly gregarious American girl. He politely smiles and nods at her stupid comments. Okay, I’m sure they aren’t stupid. But she is smiling too much for her own good. I want to catch his eye and say hello but then I chide myself for thinking that he would remember me after a year.

When the meeting ends I duck into the bathroom to avoid making small talk with industry people. If there is anything I loathe more than small talk it is small talk with people who are smarter than me. I finally come out of the bathroom and see that the only person waiting for the elevator is The Russian.

We walk in together.

He turns to me and asks, “So what did you think of the speaker?’

“Um, he was brief.”

“Very concise.”

I play with my bangs.

“I’ve met you before,” he says.

“Oh, right, I thought you looked familiar” I say as I lie through my teeth.

“Yes, you work at x?”

“That’s right.”

We head out of the building and he lights up a cigarrette.

“We should meet up for coffee sometime,” he says.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, give me your card,” I say.

“I gave you my card last time,” he says.

“Oh, right.”

He hands me his card and I write down my email address on the back of it. As I hand it to him, I notice the glint of a golden band on his finger.

“Good luck,” he says, as he walks away.

Yeah, good luck.