An American called Jack that’s-not-his-real-name

I spoke to someone today about blogging, and what I can do to get my thoughts out to the world.  He was quite cynical about people who, in their vulnerability, reach out through the internet.  For him, it didn’t have any value.


I was thinking today about an American, Jack (that’s not his real name), I met when we were both in our mid twenties.  He was the brother of my then partner Ryan (not his real name either).  We met, with our respective partners, at Mario’s in San Francisco.  I had that immediate, heart-pounding sensation which surely belongs to Rom-coms.

I was too scared of being rejected to say anything to him, plus I didn’t want to hurt Ryan.  In any case Jack had a really beautiful girl-friend who exuded self-confidence.  Unlike me.  After we’d had coffee, we went into the park, and Ryan and I horsed around like teenagers.  Jack looked wistful.  I don’t know if I was just projecting my own feelings onto him.

Ryan and I stayed with Jack and his partner in San Francisco for a weekend.  I had a seizure, and came around from it to feel more than see such a warm empathy from Jack.  I hadn’t experienced it in my life before that.  It’s stayed with me all these years.  Somewhere inside of me I was so sure he had feelings for me.  Nothing happened, though, and we went our separate ways.

I’ve never forgotten him.  Or the longing I had to be truthful with him.  I wrote to him a while ago, but I only had his mother’s address.  I don’t know if she forwarded my letter or not.  I don’t know anything about his current status, either.  He doesn’t seem to be on Facebook.

Why did I think of him?  I don’t know.  He just popped into my mind.  Maybe he’ll read my blog.  If he did he’d know I was writing about him, I’m sure of that.

Hallo Jack, wherever you are.


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