We’d settled on a Sunday afternoon for that final meeting, and now it seems doubly strange to find him here again on another Sunday, my life so different now than it was then, even though I’m in the same store, standing behind the same counter, wearing some version of what’s always, pretty much, been my style aesthetic—a knit dress, a little slouchy in fit, patterned, this particular one with tiny, friendly fox faces. Slightly wrinkled cardigan that, until an hour ago, was shoved into my bag. Navy tights and low-heeled, wine-red booties that Sibby would probably say make my feet look big but that also make me smile at least once a day, even without Sibby willing to tease me anymore.

Last year, he’d been wearing what other people call “business casual” and what I’d privately call “weekend-stick-up-your ass”: tan chinos pressed so sharply they’d looked starched, white collared shirt under a slim cut, expensive-looking navy-blue V-neck sweater. A double-take face, that was for sure—so handsome half of you is wondering if you’ve seen him on your television and the other half of you is wondering why anyone would put a head like that on top of what looked like a debate team uniform.

But now he looks different. Same head, okay—a square, clean-shaven jaw; high cheekbones that seem to carve swooping, shadowed lines down to his chin; a full-lipped mouth with corners turning slightly down; a nose bold enough to match the rest of his strong features; bright, clear blue eyes beneath a set of brows a shade lighter than his dark reddish-blond hair. Neck down, though, not so business casual anymore: olive green T-shirt underneath a hip-length, navy-blue jacket, faded around the zipper. Dark jeans, the edges of the front pockets where he has his hands tucked slightly frayed, and I don’t think it’s the kind of fraying you pay for. Gray sneakers, a bit battered-looking.

be, I think, his life is pretty different now, too.

But then he says, “Good evening,” which I guess means he’s still got the stick up his ass. Who says Good evening? Your grandad, that’s who. When you call him on his land line.

I feel like if I say a casual “Hi” or “Hey,” I’ll open up some crack in the space-time continuum, or at least make him want to straighten the tie he’s not wearing. I shouldn’t be deceived by the clothes. Maybe he got mugged on the way over by a rogue debate team captain in need of a new outfit and that’s why he looks the way he does.