After we broke up, I started seeing him everywhere. He had taken it well but not happily when I gave him the news over the phone, that I was breaking up with him because I was still madly in love with someone I had casually dated before him but had never had sex with, which relationship ended when I met this new guy, who I had sex with but did not love. And for a long time, months, two years, whenever I was with the man that I really loved (who did not love  me) I would see him skulking about somewhere in the background, shuffling ill-humoredly between photography classes, or ringing the buzzer to be let in to a party just a few doors down from my own. The very last time was when I was saying goodbye for good to the man that I loved so much, for whom I had destroyed a relationship with a handsome and well-off man who wanted to cook and clean and take beautiful photos for me, so that that first man could go leave the country and marry his elementary school sweetheart, and as I took him in my arms and buried my face into his shoulder, fighting back the tears not of heartbreak but sudden inexplicable loss for someone with whom I felt I shared a soul, I lifted my face to kiss him on the cheek for the last time, and just beyond, in front of a little cafe that I had passed by every day for three years but never gone into, I saw that vaguely familiar-looking young man get off of his very-familiar-looking bike, take out his camera, and raise it to his eye, the lens pointing in our exact direction. A few months later, drunkenly Facebook stalking all my exes, I saw that photograph on his professional website. It is over-developed, very cluttered and messy in a gorgeous chaotic urban sort of way, and dead in the center is one of my arms, my blurred sorrowful face, and the dearly-adored back of a man I never saw again.

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