I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but there he was, standing in the doorway of the cafe and looking like he couldn’t tell up from down. His brown was a tangled mess and white shirt wrinkled.

The cafe wasn’t crowed, a few people at the tables, but all of them could easily be seen. I had chosen a solitary two-seater on the left side, a barely touched cup of chai in front of me.

“Jason? Jason over here!” I waved my arms in the air in hopes of catching his attention. After all these years of searching for him I found him in an Internet chat room about recipes for homemade fruit punch. He mentioned a technique that he could have only gotten from one person – my mother.

We had been childhood friends, lived right next door to each other. We did everything together, some people even thought we were brother and sister for whenever you saw one of us, the other was always there.

When, I was twelve, his parents moved away and I lost my best friend.