A Bitter Sip of Coffee (On Recollection)

I walked down Abovyan street for the first time in six years, eventually taking a seat at the Philharmonic Cafe. Across the street a fence with the crest of Yerevan and some writing surrounds an empty lot. It reads "A More Improved Yerevan."

I took a bitter sip of coffee.

That lot was not always empty.

Shahan was young, frail, and strange. Originally from Haifa, Israel, he had come to Yerevan with the intent to pursue secondary education. Shahan shared an apartment in the outskirts of Yerevan with his older brothers, and was a frequent visitor to my home in order to escape spending time with them.

I met Shahan when we were both students at the Yerevan State University's Preparatory Facility. He was initially shy and meek, but he spoke English, so we soon became friends.

Early on Shahan revealed to me that he was gay. I had suspected as much, but never asked because it was none of my business. I asked him why he would reveal such a personal secret to me, and he replied "Because you don't care whether or not I'm gay."

A year or so later, Shahan, though open with me and some of our friends, had yet to explore gay culture. Some friends and I offered to join him at what was then Yerevan's only gay bar, Meline's, a small subterranean bar beneath a French restaurant on Abovyan street, made of stone, with arches forming thin alcoves used as seats.

When we arrived the beer was cold, the music bearable, the dance floor mostly empty. The evening was mostly uneventful and Shahan, satisfied with his first outing, was ready to go.

A second visit had Shahan becoming more comfortable with the bar and its patrons.

He began to dance, soon singling out a partner, and dancing with him for a long while. Eventually his dance partner became more aggressive and Shahan's refusal to reciprocate led to a dissemination of their dance union and the loud accusation that Shahan was a tease. We made sure Shahan was okay, then left the bar.

A short time later Shahan returned to Israel. Dissatisfied with his time in Armenia, he hoped to pursue new opportunities back home in Haifa.

Things did not go as planned. Stressed and confused, things began to unravel and before they could get better, Shahan was hit by a car and killed. His young life ended too quickly.

Sitting at that cafe I thought of my friend, now gone. Of that building where he first was open and free, now demolished. Of those good times only barely passed, now distant and unreachable.

Some things, once destroyed, cannot be improved upon.