The Stranger at Bemelmans

One overheard conversation, a night of borrowed warmth.

Photo by author.

I remember the man who sat next to us at Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle as if it were yesterday — his shiny hazel eyes peeking through the strands of my sister’s hair while we chatted. He looked to be in his mid-seventies. A few remaining wisps of gray hair decorated his head, and the rest of him was dressed in an elegant, muted blazer that allowed him to blend into the bar’s softly lit ambiance.

He didn’t move much at first, like a bee lingering on a bloom — just feeding on what he’d found: me. Eventually, he slid closer, taking the empty seat beside us on the stools at the bar so he could not just see me, but also hear what my lips were saying over the gentle hum of jazz and clinking glasses.
From that new vantage point, his ear was perfectly positioned to catch every one of my words. It wasn’t until we were leaving, as I slipped on my coat, that he finally turned to face me completely and revealed his motive: “Thank you. You made my night.”

His loneliness moved me. Did I remind him of someone he had loved and lost? Was he searching for the comfort of a familiar voice? Or was he, perhaps, an old playboy trying a new subtle line? Still, whoever he was, that man had acknowledged that he had taken something from our conversation and…