Thursday Dinners & 𝐺𝑦𝑚𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑒́𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 by Erik Satie

At every stage of life, we inevitably lose certain people, forget certain attachments, and let go of certain desires that were never truly ours to begin with.

Those we cannot keep despite our greatest efforts can only be released; those who once appeared in our lives were never meant to stay forever.

Perhaps the most beautiful ending we can hope for is simply a complete farewell — a beginning and an ending that both feel whole.

When I was studying for my master’s degree in New York, I was already twenty-two. It was my first time living abroad for an extended period, and in a city as fiercely competitive as New York. The emotional distance between people, combined with the pressure of school, made it difficult to truly feel at home. From the very first weeks of the semester, life became a constant rush of assignments, presentations, exams, and internship applications. There was almost no time for leisure.

Fortunately, during the second week of my Operations Management class, the professor passed around the attendance sheet and asked everyone to sign in. The French student sitting next to me — Antoine — had forgotten to bring a pen.

He turned to me and asked if he could borrow mine, and that was how we met.

Antoine spoke English with a soft French accent. Later I learned he was from Paris. He had thick, slightly tousled brown hair and warm brown eyes. He was lively, fond of rock music and science-fiction films — completely different from me. Yet we shared two unexpected interests: mathematics and foreign languages.

For our midterm group project, we invited Brian, a Canadian student sitting on our other side, to join our group.

Everyone was busy — preparing for classes, exams, assignments, and internships — so even though there were only three of us, it was surprisingly difficult to find time to meet. Fortunately, Columbia rarely scheduled classes on Fridays back then. So we made a routine: every Thursday evening we would meet for dinner, and afterward continue discussing our project.

Usually we chose small restaurants near campus — sometimes Vietnamese, sometimes Mexican.

After two weeks, our dinners ended later and later. What had begun at seven soon stretched to eight, then nine, sometimes even ten — when the restaurants were preparing to close.

Along with the project discussions, we began talking about our lives.

Antoine was brilliant at mathematics. In Paris he had studied mathematics and hoped to stay in New York to work for an investment bank on Wall Street.

Brian was from Toronto. Dark circles permanently framed his eyes, but he dreamed of working in healthcare and hoped to enter the field through consulting, so he had taken two additional public-health courses.

As for me, I was determined to return to Taiwan. Taiwan’s technology industry was among the best in the world, and I believed there must be a place there for me.

A month and a half later, we successfully completed our midterm project and earned the second-highest score in the class.

Even after the project ended, our Thursday dinners continued. They gradually became a study group. After dinner we worked through assignments together and prepared for our final exams. In the end, all three of us passed with excellent grades.

Before winter break arrived, we had our last Thursday dinner of the semester. We decided to celebrate. For months we had been staying up late — sometimes even studying through the night. Now it was December. The whole world seemed wrapped in Christmas lights and the anticipation of the New Year, and we wanted, just for one evening, to escape the approaching pressure of finals week.

So we chose a French restaurant downtown, a little farther from campus.

For three students in New York, it felt almost luxurious.

Antoine wore a light blue shirt with a suit, his hair still characteristically tousled. Brian also wore a suit with a gray shirt. I wore a black long-sleeved dress with a square neckline and a softly wavy skirt that fell just above the knees — the one dress I had brought to New York for formal occasions.

The restaurant was elegantly old-fashioned. Tables edged with gold stood beside wooden chairs and sofas upholstered in deep wine-red cushions. Above us, a glass dome ceiling filtered out the noise of Manhattan while revealing the city’s night skyline. The dim golden lighting and the quiet footsteps of waiters moving through the room made the place feel like a small sanctuary removed from the world.

We ordered duck breast, beef, and several side dishes. To celebrate, we also ordered a bottle of champagne.

As a pianist in the background played light jazz, Antoine raised his glass first.

“To surviving our first semester at Columbia,” he said. “It will only get harder from here — but also better.”

We laughed and talked as we finished a rich and wonderful meal, slightly tipsy from the champagne. After dinner, Antoine and Brian accompanied me in a taxi back to my apartment. At the entrance of my building, we hugged goodbye and promised we would meet again after winter break.

The second semester turned out differently.

None of us shared classes anymore, and with graduation approaching, the pressure of school and job hunting consumed our time. We barely stayed in touch.

Six months passed.

Then, at the end of December, Antoine sent a message in our group chat:

“Hey — before graduation, should we meet again?

Thursday, December 5th, 7pm. Same French restaurant?”

It had already been a year since the last time.

That evening, all three of us arrived early, as if we had been quietly looking forward to it for a long time.

When we walked into the restaurant, everything felt both familiar and strangely distant. None of us had returned since the night we opened that bottle of champagne a year earlier.

Antoine had cut his hair shorter. Wearing a new suit and a crisp blue shirt, he looked sharp and confident. He told us he had accepted an offer from BNP in New York and would start the following month.

Brian no longer had dark circles under his eyes. After graduation he planned to return to Canada, where a friend of his father had arranged consulting interviews for him. Wearing a dark gray suit, white shirt, and charcoal scarf, he looked radiant — his smile as polished as a Hugo Boss advertisement in Times Square.

I wore a deep purple long-sleeved cashmere dress with nude heels. I had already decided to return to Taiwan to look for work, and I too felt hopeful about the future.

Yet strangely, we talked very little about the future that evening.

Instead, we spent most of the night reminiscing about the past year and a half at Columbia.

Brian joked about the first time he heard Antoine’s French accent and almost burst out laughing. Antoine said when he first saw me, he thought I had a terrible resting bitch face, and if he hadn’t needed to borrow a pen, he probably wouldn’t have dared speak to me.

We laughed remembering the time we spent sitting in Five Guys counting customers and observing burger production efficiency for our Operations Management project — watching the employees assemble burgers until they finally came over and asked if we were inspectors sent by the boss.

Looking at each other, it felt as though everything had happened only yesterday.

Five hundred days is not very long.

But it is long enough for three naïve graduates to become adults stepping into the real world.

At some point Antoine said, “Since we’re all graduating anyway… we should open another bottle of Moët.”

The waiter arrived with a smile and opened the bottle with practiced ease. The crisp pop of the cork sounded exactly like it had a year earlier. Golden champagne filled our glasses, tiny bubbles rising endlessly.

Antoine raised his glass again.

“I’m grateful for the time we’ve had together. Wherever we end up in the future — may life always be worth celebrating.”

Just then, behind me, the pianist began playing Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies.

In that moment we were celebrating the journeys ahead — and quietly saying goodbye.

My eyes filled with tears. Antoine’s brown eyes shimmered as well. Brian said nothing, though his smile carried a trace of sadness.

We all understood.

This was probably the last time we would ever see one another.

“Whatever happens in the future,” I said softly, “it’s been an honor to have met you.”

Brian nodded. “The honor is mine.”

We drank slowly that night, as if hoping the champagne might somehow delay time itself.

Erik Satie’s music was like the New York night, slowly flowing into the lives of the three of us. This city had brought us together and allowed us to share a brief, beautiful time. Now those melodies felt like the winter winds sweeping through New York — cold and relentless — scattering us toward different corners of the world.

Brian sniffed and forced a smile.

“Hey, don’t be sad. Who knows — maybe one day we’ll meet again and end up writing another group report together. Hopefully next time we’ll get paid for it.”

Antoine and I both laughed.

The tears in his eyes gathered at the corners as he laughed; he wiped them away with his long middle finger and poured me another glass of champagne.

Brian looked at me with a quiet smile, as if checking that I was alright. I smiled back and asked him to pass me the bread.

The music gradually became lighter, and we continued talking — about school, family, childhood memories.

The waiter served our second course: beef bourguignon. Later came dessert — molten chocolate cake and opera cake.

He occasionally refilled our glasses. We drank very slowly, as if believing that as long as the champagne was not finished, we would never have to leave.

Listening to Erik Satie, I looked at the two companions in front of me and thought quietly to myself:

These must be the most handsome and brilliant young men I have ever known.

Eventually the music ended. The champagne was gone, the molten cake reduced to crumbs. At some point the pianist had quietly disappeared.

Without realizing it, we had stayed until the restaurant closed.

When we stepped outside, it was nearly eleven.

A cool winter breeze moved through the street. Antoine draped his suit jacket over my shoulders. Brian stood nearby waving down a taxi, his tall figure and familiar smile still as warm as ever.

Just like a year before, they accompanied me back to my apartment.

When we reached the entrance of my apartment building, the three of us hugged tightly, as if we might never see each other again. I wanted to hold on to that moment, but time does not wait for anyone — just like the futures waiting ahead of the three of us. We all longed for them, yet none of us could pause in any single moment.

We parted beneath my apartment building without saying goodbye, only wishing each other good night.

From the living-room window on the third floor, I watched Antoine and Brian walk into the New York night.

Under the dim streetlights, the two men in suits walked side by side, their backs straight.

They turned right at the corner and disappeared into the distance.

To this day, I still think it was the most beautiful pair of silhouettes I have ever seen.