Rediscovering life with a welcome stranger In a Hollywood screenplay it is known as a "meet-cute," but in Brooklyn, New York, it is typically cause for alarm: the tall stranger approaching a solitary woman on a deserted subway platform. In May 2007, as I waited at the grubby Nevins Street station for the express train into Manhattan, I was too intrigued to be frightened as I watched a man walk towards me. In New York, personal space is sacred, and eye contact fleeting - reserved for the purpose of self-preservation. As he got closer, I took in the details: perfectly bald, tall, dark-green polo shirt and khakis. Clean-shaven macchiato skin. A respectful but determined look in his brown eyes. Downright handsome. I had moved from Australia to New York to start a new life, having been widowed, after 11 months of marriage, at the age of 34. But when I ventured into the world of online dating, I learnt that "widow" is about as appealing as a cold shower. When the stranger asked how long had I been waiting for the train, we both understood there was a different question on his lips. He paused. Has anyone told you that you are very pleasing to the eye? I laughed, surprised by his formality as well as his chutzpah. "Not lately," I said. He introduced himself as Tom, and we sat together on the train when it arrived. When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. After feeling invisible for three years, it was exhilarating to be noticed. The first time Tom came to my apartment, after what could only be described as fireworks, he disappeared into the kitchen. Realising that I knew almost nothing about the man who had just shared my bed, I considered the possibility he would return wielding a carving knife. A minute later, he filled the bedroom doorway, carrying two glasses of water. "How 'bout that war in Iraq?" he said, apropos of nothing. Tom worked for a private security company and roamed the city late into the nights, checking on bouncers and doormen and security guards for his clients. Sometimes he would show up at my door at 6am. Other weeks, it would be 6pm. I had been living in the past. Tom brought me back to the present. Our relationship existed in a private realm that was joyful and liberating, but disconnected from the rest of my life. A few close friends learnt about Tom, but it suited me to keep most of the details close. I could hardly explain to myself that I had taken a lover who stopped by my apartment once a week, that I went nowhere with this man and knew little about his life - and that the arrangement suited me perfectly. But as time went on, I began to strain against the limitations of our liaison. Don't you ever want to go out for dinner, see a movie? I started to ask, tiring of never going anywhere together. "I'm not into that," he would say. When Tom phoned me from work, the caller identity was always withheld. "Unavailable," it read. It seemed increasingly appropriate. After two years, I met a man I found attractive with whom I had lots in common, and I broke it off with Tom. "I know you want these other things from life," he said quietly. I just don't want you to get hurt. But the man full of promise soon revealed himself to be a liar. I had wrongly believed that the pain of grief had inoculated me against being hurt again. I felt bereft, and furious at my late husband for leaving me alone. Tom not only took me back, but withheld judgment. I realised I had underestimated his feelings for me, and that I was the one who had kept him at arm's length. We resumed as if nothing had changed, but I wanted more. It was a perfect arrangement as long as I didn't try to make it into something that it wasn't - such as a relationship. The night before I was leaving New York to visit my family in Sydney, Tom and I had arranged to have dinner. By now, 2½ years after we had met, the idea of sharing a meal in public had become a more potent indicator of intimacy than any bedroom activity. I waited for him in my apartment, wearing a new dress and the pearl earrings my husband had given me. Tom never showed up. I was done. When we met for lunch last week, it had been three years since Tom and I had seen each other. He looked a little thinner. My hair was a lot longer. My boyfriend wasn't thrilled at the idea of my seeing Tom, but I still cared about him and was curious as to why he had got in touch. Maybe he was getting married. I'm glad you're happy. I always wanted you to be happy," he said as we waited for our burgers in a diner on Union Square. Tom was not getting married. These days, he runs his own private security company. "I'm doing well," he said. I just wanted to make sure you're all right. After lunch, Tom insisted on catching the train downtown with me a few stops. We stood in a crowded carriage and I thought of the day we met. I kissed Tom goodbye and stepped off the train. The doors closed. Tom kept travelling, and I didn't look back. Virginia Lloyd is the author of The Young Widow's Book of Home Improvement. She lives in New York.