An old college roommate emailed me a notice about another classmate from our college alumni magazine. "Wasn't he a friend of yours?" she asked. "He certainly has done well for himself."

He was and he had. He had been the copy editor on our college yearbook; I had been editor in chief. We had been great pals, talking into the night over endless pitchers of beer, but had never gone beyond that. Which is pretty impressive for the 70s, I have to admit. I dashed off a quick email to say hello and was delighted 20 minutes later when I got a response: "Holy shit! I've always wondered where you were."

And so began a lovely email relationship. We talked about our college friendship, how he had always hoped it had been more. (Who knew?) We spoke of our failed marriages, our careers, where we were going.

After three months of increasingly, um, interesting correspondence, I decided it was time to quit pussyfooting around. A visit to the aforementioned roommate outside Washington DC was in order. That she just so happened to live a few miles from him — pure coincidence.

We met. He had aged really well, in a craggy Clint Eastwood way (more Fistful of Dollars than Million Dollar Baby). And as our lunch date stretched into the evening hours, it was clear we still had a lot to talk about.

We started to make plans to see each other again. He was definitely coming to visit in a couple of weeks.

But then he had to meet with his publisher about some changes to his next book.

And then there was the sailing competition he was in.

Then some nonsense about having to visit his sister.

I made the mistake of believing in what might be possible.

In retrospect, when he said to me "I'll never disappear on you" I should have taken the hint that there might be a reason why he would make such a statement. He really wanted this to work, he said. The emails were increasingly intense. And then, nothing. He disappeared.

And so it goes.