When the café closed, I took my things and made my way home. It was a balmy night, maybe the last one of the year, and so I decided to walk, taking the long route. I walked toward the Old Town, where the lights had been switched off for the night. Couples sat kissing at the foot of King Zygmunt’s Column or leaning against the walls of the reconstructed castle. I walked through the little narrow streets, past the cathedral, and out onto the old market square, which was almost empty except for some tourists taking photos of the restored baroque facades. The sky was a square, drawn by the high roofs of those houses. And then I heard the faint but steady sound of a saxophone, with a bass chasing after it. The melody drifted through the air, little more than a whisper of jazz.

I walked toward the sound on the other side of the square. The music seemed to come from a darkened building with all its curtains drawn. One ground-level window was illuminated. I crouched and looked down into a vaulted cave filled with a buzzing crowd, smoke gliding from their faces toward the ceiling, glasses held to their lips. A band was playing just below the window. I recognized the composition as one by Komeda, maybe from the soundtrack for Knife in the Water—tempting, chaotic, then languid. My mind listened to the story of the notes as my eyes wandered the crowd until they landed on you.

It was as if someone had turned off the music, like an electric shock in my mind. You and your perfectly shaven face, turned toward her, her earlobe between your fingers. Her long earrings reflecting the light in all the colors of the spectrum. A rush went through my belly like a snake. You moved together to the music, you holding her and her holding you. Her hands were on your shoulder, her painted fingernails flashing in the light, her long skirt shifting with the music. This is an image I cannot forget: your hands around her waist, your fingers sinking into the fabric of her skirt. They looked settled there, and I was struck by the tenderness in your eyes. I watched you both as if you were a pair of strangers. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t mean anything, that it wasn’t real. And yet I could no longer look at you without feeling absolutely drained of any power. I got to my feet, feeling light-headed, my vision blurred for a moment. I walked home, my heart beating twice for every step I took.

*  *  *

I guess you never knew that I saw you that night. Do you remember the music? Do you remember her earrings? Are there things you’ve forgotten or things I’ve missed out? My memory has its limits, of course. It may color in the blanks without admitting to it, dramatize or revise. I guess there is no photographic memory for emotions. But this is my truth right now, for better or worse.