We met on Purim.

A day of unexpected miracles.

The first time his eyes met mine, I was dressed up in my devil’s costume with my red gloves, black straight skirt, devil’s tail and horns, trying to keep a positive attitude despite my feelings of emptiness knowing that my kids were away and the rest of the country was celebrating.

He asked me who I was.

We exchanged details and that’s when it all began. I started to chat with him, hesitantly at first, but with  time our trust in one another grew.

He taught me about country music and Israeli singers. He taught me how to fight for myself and when to just keep quiet. He gave me the courage to face the fire and the love to heal when I got burned.

He taught me how to neutralize my own pride and at the same time how to fight for what I cared for. He taught me about justice, and negotiating and righting the wrongs in my life.

I understood that he had lost his faith in mankind somewhere along the way.

But I always trusted him. Why wouldn’t I? He was a person who had no ulterior motives except to be my friend, to offer me support and to care about me.

He shared his poetry with me.

He broke my heart as many times as he patched it back together again.

Sometimes he was mean. Not to me but it still hurt when I saw it. He made me feel vulnerable and aware of my own weaknesses and then at moments when I thought I was beyond salvaging, he reminded me about all of the unique things he saw in me.

I taught him about love, and family and happiness. I taught him about trust and friendship. I made him realize that not everyone in the world is bad.

And then he set me free.

Maybe it’s because we tried too hard to be who we are not.

Maybe at  a different time things would have been different, if we had met without all of our heavy baggage and our great mistrust in mankind.

He cannot love and I cannot be loved; a lethal combination. It seems to be the most twisted plot for a friendship that anyone could ever have imagined.

He hurt me. But I hurt him too.

So now, I lie here wondering if he is OK. I shouldn’t care. But I do.

I remember what he said to me on his way out. He is the king of exits.  He tried to explain to me why he was simplifying his life which really meant that he was outta here simply because that’s what he does when things get complicated.

But those are not his words, I know him too well to believe him.

Sometimes it’s better to say nothing at all when the words are fabricated and so obviously a lie.

And yet with his exit came a few carefree words that I knew for certain were truly his own:

“Ciao baby, he said. “Catch you on the other side.”