A piece of paper I kept in my wallet for 4 years and lost 9 months ago

Maybe you reminded him of a girl he once knew, back in the '90s, when he was still at Swarthmore. Sophomore year, maybe junior year. A social anthropology major with cinnamon hair and mocha eyes who he used to see all the time in the library pouring over dissertations by Phillippe Bourgois. She'd often hunch over her books on the third floor, near the corner, at the lectern on which someone had proudly announced with a sharp object: "I had sex on this desk!" He'd had a brief encounter with her once, when she dropped her retractable orange highlighter. He'd picked it up for her and for a nanosecond, as she took it from him, there were no molecules of nitrogen, oxygen and argon between his fingers and hers. And the way you sat there in the cafe at St. Mark's, your body bent forward over the table between you and your friend reminded him of her silhouette and he couldn't help but feel that same urge to rub shoulders with you. Just to share one succinct note of arbitrary courtesy.

Or maybe you reminded him of a girl he roomed with for six months who he found on Craigslist a few years ago. She used to breeze in and out of the apartment like a western zephyr, carrying an air of simple delicacy. Some nights though, she would come home and not even be able to make it to her bedroom, which was farther back than his. Instead she would collapse onto the second-hand sofa that was in the apartment before either of them moved in, and curl up into a fetal position before passing out while still wearing the same bohemian top and long patchworked skirt she'd thrown on in the morning. When he walked past the couch, he could smell on her a mix of the rosewater soap she used and the scent of fruity cocktails and he'd wonder whether as a roommate he was obligated or as an acquaintance he was expected to comfort her, give her a shoulder to cry on or at least carry her to her bed. So it was the same, when he walked past your table on his way to the bar for the last round for him and his buddy that the bouquet of floral essences fused with the three bellinis you've had in one hour wafted towards him and gave him another chance at rising to the occasion.

But most likely, you reminded him of the receptionist at William Morris who had the most amazing mop of fiery red hair that cascaded about and singed the edges of her face. He'd always suspected she'd come to the city because she wanted to be a writer to document the stark contrast between dreams exploding and defering here at the center of the universe. He'd figured she wanted to be a poet by her lyrical messages she sent to remind him of his appointments with his agent. That particular day, before his chance encounter with you, he'd stopped by the office and spoke with her for a few moments before her coworker or maybe boss or maybe secret lover behind closed doors spouted out a few curt words before disappearing out onto 6th Ave. Her face fell and he crumpled, he really did because he felt there was nothing he could have done for her. But a few hours later, a few miles south, a few beers downed, here you are. The same flash in your eyes, the same biting of the lip and droplets of salty disappointment, waiting to be saved.

When you realized what he'd written, he was already gone. You never even saw what he looked like. All that was in your memory was a young man in a brown coat, dropping a folded piece of paper on your table and walking out the front door. Your friend looked on as you took a break from your weeping to unfold that flyer for beads and strings and fanciful things. On the back, written in black pen, with the word "so" underlined three times, was the following: "cheer up. you are so beautiful."