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Christina and Nagel

Christina was easy to love. Everyone who knew her felt it, and so did I. She had a radiance about her, as if life was lighter in her presence. Maybe that’s why heaven called her too soon. I still protest that—because for me, our time together was not enough. I wanted her to stay.

It was the summer of 1998. Christina and I had been living together for almost three years in an apartment we rented in Burnaby, not far from Simon Fraser University, where she worked as a Co-op Coordinator. It was also my last year working as a chemist.

At the time, I was employed by a small research company based at Vancouver General Hospital. It was a struggling startup with no clear future, unlikely to survive another round of financing. I needed something more stable to support us, so I was sending résumés to pharmaceutical companies across Ontario and Quebec. Each evening, when I got home, the first thing I did was check the answering machine, hoping to hear “the message”—that one call that could change everything. More often than not, there was nothing. Sometimes, a message from Christina’s family. If she arrived before me, I’d ask her, and the answer was always the same: nothing.

One evening, however, I pressed play and heard something completely different:

"Christina, this is Nagel. I’m in town for the weekend. I’ve been working on my Ph.D. in California. I heard you got married—congratulations! I’m staying with my mom near Metrotown. Call me if you have a chance. I can be reached at 555-1234. Call me! Bye."

When Christina came home, I told her, “Nagel called. He left a message.”

She froze, then hurried to the machine and pressed play.

“Nagel!” she said softly.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“We studied together at SFU.” She paused, then added with a little laugh, “I think he had a crush on me.” Another pause. “He was a nice guy. We had classes together, good conversations, lunches… with friends, of course.”

“The only thing he ever asked me,” she went on, “was to go to Europe with him after graduation.”

“And what did you say?”

“No,” she answered firmly, her eyes lingering on the machine as if reaffirming that choice.

“Well… I think you should call him,” I said. The words came out casually, but in truth they felt like opening a door I wasn’t sure I wanted opened.

“Yes, just a friend. Nothing more. Are you okay with me calling him?”

“Of course, Christina. You can even invite him for dinner,” I said, though inside I wasn’t sure at all. I was already regretting it. I felt like I had just placed our marriage—still glowing in its fourth year of honeymoon—into unknown territory. Was I foolish, or just too proud to admit my unease?

“We’ve got those two rabbits in the freezer, wine, potatoes, salad… you could treat your friend,” I added, trying to sound cheerful.

She smiled. The thought of reconnecting with an old friend seemed to make her happy, like a reminder of her student days.

“Oh, it would be lovely!” she said.


Nagel was delighted when Christina called, and he accepted the invitation.

Christina cooked rabbit the way only she could—garlic, celery, rosemary, thyme, sage, and wine, with roasted vegetables and golden potatoes. She’d never eaten rabbit before she met me, but because it was part of my Cuban upbringing, she learned to prepare it beautifully. It was her way of making me feel at home. That night, our apartment transformed into a Tuscan painting, the warm air filled with herbs and wine, the table glowing with candlelight.

Nagel arrived right on time, flowers in hand. Christina greeted him with laughter and a hug.

“Jose, this is Nagel.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“The pleasure’s mine,” I replied, shaking his hand firmly.

Dinner was easy and pleasant. They shared old stories, and we all laughed together. Nagel spoke passionately about his doctoral research, his dream of becoming a professor one day, leading his own research group, teaching. I found myself relating—at the time, I had even applied for a professorship at the University of Manitoba, sending a proposal on synthesizing Mycobacterium tuberculosis antigens. For a while, I forgot he had once carried a torch for Christina. He seemed simply a colleague, someone I could have called a friend.

The evening stretched late. Nagel had taken public transit, and we felt uneasy about sending him home so late, so we offered him a ride. The car was quiet, the kind of silence that follows a long, satisfying evening.

As we pulled up near Metrotown, he spoke quietly from the back seat:

“Christina, I never had the courage to tell you how I felt about you. And now it’s too late. Be happy, both of you.”

Then he opened the door and stepped out.

We sat frozen, thunderstruck. At last, I leaned out the window.

“Nagel, good luck with your thesis. Let us know how it goes.”

“Sure thing.”

“Take care, Nagel.”

“Thank you, Christina. Thank you for having me over.”

“You’re welcome, Nagel. Bye.”

“Bye.”

And then he was gone.

As we drove away, Christina said his confession hadn’t surprised her, though it was unexpected. For me, it felt like a final goodbye—one man stepping out of her life so that I could remain in it.

That night, more than ever, I felt blessed. She was mine.

We never heard from Nagel again.

Nagel was not his real name.  He came from a southeast Asian family, very conservative with an amazing history. As we drove home that night, Christina told me what he had told her about his family.  After I met Nagel, I thought that if he had been the lucky one, he would have made Christina very happy as well.

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