I didn’t know. I never even suspected until the phone rang.

We met two years ago. He worked in New York at some law firm that did a lot of work in Boston. I was at a restaurant in the Back Bay, under the umbrella of an outdoor table, admiring the city. The theater district was on one side; Chinatown on the other. The area in between was an interesting blend of both, so that you never really knew where one ended and the other began.

“Mind if I join you?” It was a man’s voice, but all I could make out was a very nice suit, soft, white hands, and a solidly square jaw.

“OK,” I said, noticing that all of the other tables were occupied. “Jessica,” I held out my hand.

He set his plate down, shook my hand, and smiled brighter than the sunshine. “James.”

I’d reflect on that meeting in the months to come. He was theater district – upper class, refined and poignant. I was Chinatown – a jumble of words, a mess of clothes, and an urge to be more. Where our two parts integrated remained an undefined place.