The days had already grown short
and a stiff wind blew damp air off the Baltic.
Faceless crowds hurried towards their next destination
cloaked in wool and winter’s pressing purpose.

I left my hotel room to join them
mindlessly retracing steps I’d taken dozens of times
past lighted amber kiosks and neon pharmacies
onto the cobbled streets of Stare Miasto.

I’d often end up at Restauracja Gorczycki
baroque décor heavy in the undersized room
fitting just three small tables and one to seat twelve
optimistically reserved for a banquet yet to be.

The place was usually empty, and I would take my corner table
dimly lit by a cabaret dancer lamp
shade fringed in burlesque red
a cheeky distraction struggling for needed levity.

The server was a university student
poring over her notes in the intervals between courses
instinctively shifting from studious to amiable
yet guarding most of her energy for her books.

I remembered her name - Kamila -
and with it the way she would float
from her chair by the kitchen to my table
allowing a disarming smile as she arrived.

Regardless of the wine I pointed to
she’d serve Malbec with studied ceremony,
graceful hands embracing bottle and glass.
Maybe she knew better, and I cared not to complain.

This time she was gone, out to challenge the world
spiraling open with promise and peril
leaving me to mourn such a singular fragment
over one last meal at Gorczyckis.

I would not return to Gdańsk for many years;
unlike Kamila’s, my world is contracting.
Sometimes I wonder where she might be, though
to me she was nothing, and she was enough.