Although I know how ill he really is, I hated admitting that his gauntness made him all the more attractive. His fragility is so alluring to me, his wrists are my undoing. His hands move like a magician’s would, practiced and with pleasure. Everything he did, from removing a card from his wallet to opening a door and letting me pass was a sinewy ballet. My first instinct upon seeing him was to throw myself shameless at him. The longing in me was so great it was almost unbearable. I kissed whatever part of him that was in front of me. I kissed his hands and face. I buried myself in my hair. I think I may have bit him. He stiffened and then letting go of his fear of public spectacle, of drawing attention to himself, wrapped his arms around me. He arched his head back then and broke in to a laugh.

It felt so good to be back on European trains. In the compartment he stared out the window pensively, tensing his jaw, silent to me. He was wearing the same charcoal gray coat that he had when I left, but the missing middle button had been replaced and I loved him that much more, thinking of him alone in his hotel room sewing on a button. Common gestures endear him more to me. Watching him make tea, spooning out the bag and putting it in the hotel ashtray, carrying the cup over to me, placing it beside me make me swoon. He was so uncommon so to see him do something commonplace seemed extraordinary, beautiful, poetic. Like a woman opening a fan. An elephant in snow.

We left Brussels in the late afternoon, travelling through Gent, Bruges and ending in Oostende. The train station is an ornamental gray and glass structure that made me think of India. Outside, without calling a shiny black taxi slowed to a stop in front of us and he opened the door, guiding me in. He said,
“Hotel Polaris.” And to me, “Why are you smiling?”
“It’s just funny.”
“What is?”
“That we’re here, of all places.”
“I always come here, I like the sea off season, it’s depressing, it makes me think of suicide.”
“I guess you haven’t seen the movie”
“Movie? There is a movie set in Oostende?”
I took his hand, “It’s right up your alley, I will have to find it and show it to you sometime.” He looked at me, giving me his I don’t understand her, but I’ve never been happier look and then tuned his gaze to the traffic.

The city is ugly, despite the sea. There is a new casino. It was raining. The taxi drivers name was Karl. The radio was playing Radiohead.

It felt like midnight in the lobby of the hotel. A thousand midnights trapped inside. It smelled of cleaner and coffee and wood. The walls are white. There is funky furniture and a boutique restaurant filled with elegant Belgians all in black and white and gray. It was warm, self-conscious. “I like that we came through a red door,” I said. He looked at me, decided to not comment then (in Flemish) asked the serious woman behind the reception desk for a room.

(He spoke Flemish, another mystery my man of clouds)

We were given a pass card, a book was signed. What did he say I was? Did he? Was he asked? He put the card in his pocket and said, “The top floor, we look at the square, we’re blocks from the sea, we can walk there when we’re settled, we can sing sad songs and write postcards.” He sounded tired. And when he is tired, I can hear how sick he really is. When he is tired he is no longer acting. He kissed me on the top of my head and I said,

“Let me get that.”