In a time far, far away, but not forgotten, near a suburb of Pittsburgh called Elena, I met Ivan Sander. Honestly speaking, he looked exactly like the lumberjack, except Ivan didn’t have any facial hair. He worked at the water plant as a chemical engineer. At twenty-eight and brilliant, he had a nice car, house, and some money in the bank. Our first bumping-into-each-other had taken place three years ago in the summer. A small, independent bookstore called Romeo and Juliet’s sat in the center of Esplee Street. Ivan frequented there, picking sci-fi reads; I enjoyed mysteries; still do. Both of us stood at the counteregister area and accidentally brushed shoulders together. Eye contact happened between us and light conversation ensued about paperbacks, k****e, and the newest success by the h
