His name was probably not Mark, but that’s what I call him, because Mark-my-English-teacher would’ve loved this story. He was probably around 30, but I thought he was 46, because the foggy day made his face look longer and older. He probably had a laptop in his suitcase, but I imagine it differently: his most important belongings, all stuffed into one carry-on. He was probably okay, really, but I like to think he wasn’t; it makes the whole scenario so much more romantic. He was probably just going to work, but I wondered nonetheless if he was running from something—a wife, a job, a routine. He probably wasn’t even crying, but I remember it that way— maybe I was the one crying, or maybe it was both of us.