The keys

It started as a loan from a university friend. A quiet, older guy who dressed like his younger classmates but didn’t make a point of it. He spoke softly and would rest his clean, slender hands palms-down on the café table while listening intently to whoever sat across from him, always waiting for them to finish their thought before taking a sip from a lukewarm demitasse of espresso.

One morning, he found Misha sitting out front and asked for a ride to the airport.

“Where are you headed?” Misha asked, turning down the radio as they hit the ring road.

“Yerevan,” the friend said. “Armenia. One in thirty people there’s a refugee now. They need help.”

Misha glanced over. “You’re doing a good deed. I wish I could go and help too.”

The man gave a small smile. “Stay. Focus on your studies. And Sima.”

He said her name like it meant something permanent.

“You’re lucky, Misha,” he added. “To have found love this early. You might take it for granted, but not everyone gets that. I know.”

Misha nodded, not sure what to say.

“I know I’m lucky,” he said. “And I know you’ll find love too someday.”

He didn’t say it just to return the kindness. He meant it. He wanted his friend to believe it.

At the curb, the man stepped out, waved, and turned toward the terminal. Then he stopped. He leaned back through the open passenger window and extended his hand.

“Take these,” he said. “Don’t trash the place.”

It was the keys to his apartment.

Then he was gone.