A friend died. Or should I say ex-friend? We’d been close once, as close as two guys get, I’d have said, short of partners. Besties. This is ancient history now. Talked regularly, observed birthdays and anniversaries, knew each other’s whereabouts and woes. Our intimacy seemed reciprocal. We enjoyed being together. Then what? Silence. Had I done something? Said something? (Inadvertently offending friends is an occupational hazard for a chatterer.) Had something changed in his life that changed our relation? No disaster had befallen him – I still heard about him from friends in common. He had not relocated. He just had switched me off – without a word – and that was that.

This is neither a rebuke – the dead are out of reach – or pity-plea – the wound’s long since hardened into a shiny scar – rather a meditation on friendship.

No gift more precious – or precarious. Marriages are contracts which may be violated, but usually one knows why. Friendships, unofficial, have iffy protocols. We may recall when we met – or the moment acquaintance blossomed into affection – but never did we pledge fealty – not in so many words – or exclusivity. We were together because we chose to be – that’s part of the thrill – intimacy was never obligatory. With each encounter we were greeted anew.

My late former friend broke no vow going silent. He didn’t “owe me” an explanation. Yet the mystery of his disaffection gnawed my peace. What had changed? If the fault was mine, I ached to apologize, it wasn’t meant. If my social utility had evaporated, that would hurt but would be good to know. When I was growing up, no one used the word “closure”. Psychiatry in the interim has turned sadness into a diagnosis. Saying goodbye’s now a step-by-step process like quitting drinking.

I loitered in the grieving phase – not wholly free, decades after. I feel guilty – but of what? – or repugnant – but for what? – or accused – but of what? I chide my childishness but it’s no use. Was I mistaken from the start? Maybe none of my friends are really friends…

I’m ravenous for friends. Having none as a boy – we lived too far afield – I also lacked the knack – so fantasized familiars. I started writing, I’m convinced, to befriend. Many writers reach from solitary confinement. “This is my letter to the world,” mused Emily Dickinson, “that never wrote to me.”

I crave friends – and solitude. The contradiction complicates. I reach out – and slam my door. I want to “be there” for friends – and away from them – so I can write to them.

My friend – ex-friend – did me a favor, in a way, by abandoning me. He taught me caution. We may imagine we know another – but we can’t. We may imagine we know ourselves – but we don’t. We must care – yet beware. “One should not give up one’s heart too quickly,” advised Nietzsche wisely; “one should lend it.” (Nietzsche’s friendships were fragile.)

As you glide toward your completion, friends die. Their departure, in the ordinary course, comes to hurt less. You anticipate joining them soon enough. You may also be reluctant to form new friends: why plant a seed so close to frost? Maturing a friendship takes time you no longer have.

I am a flirt (q.e.d.): creators tend to be. I’m a whiz at falling in love. But I have trained myself – yes, trained – to flirt responsibly. I give as much as I can – here – and to my dearest – with the understanding I can’t give much for long. As my friend quit me, I must you: it’s only a matter of time.