In the New York of decades past, millineries and men’s hatters were if not ubiquitous certainly plentiful enough, serving every corner of the city. But men stopped wearing hats, for the most part, in the 1960s, and the hatters began fading from view. A few, like the venerable J&J Hatter in midtown, hung on; but even they are in decline, and the milliners aren’t faring much better.

When she first saw him, it was the hat that got her attention: a fine Panama, a fino-fino custom-woven in Ecuador. To say it fit him like a glove would be a disservice to the Montecristi. She was never sure exactly what made her turn: Was it the unusual sight of a man his age, wearing a hat seemingly out of a Thin Man movie, something that would have been at home atop John Huston or William Powell? Or the unusual style of the hat itself, flatter than a classic fedora but nowhere near a boater, the classic Havana shape not often seen north of Miami? In the end, she decided it was the man himself as much as the hat, for the two were inseparable.

He walked with confidence. Not a swagger, exactly, but he made the street — the space he occupied — his own. Tall, erect, intense; and then there was that hat gliding down the avenue, as if on its own. She wasn’t the only woman to look, follow his path at least surreptitiously; but when he passed her, she thought she saw the trace of a smile cross his face. And when next day she was out doing errands, there he was. He smiled at her and asked the time, and made a show of setting his watch. (It wasn’t until much later that she remembered seeing the phone on his belt.) He thanked her and noted that it was, after all, lunchtime, and would she join him? Nothing fancy, but it was such a beautiful day and the sidewalk cafes so inviting, and isn’t it just a little depressing to eat alone?

They lingered over an outdoor lunch, ordered another bottle of Chardonnay and lingered over that. When they rose to leave, he offered to carry her parcels — the gesture, like the topper, a warm something from another time. At her door she hesitated, then offered him a glass of iced tea. She stood close, maybe inappropriately close, when she handed it to him, inhaling his scent and wondering about his smile. He put the glass to his lips and drank, thanked her and sipped again, and then (and how it happened she was never sure) his arms were around her, his cold tongue a counterpoint to her own.

They made love with the awkward, raw, almost inept abandon of a couple half their age who are discovering each other’s bodies (as well as their own) for the first time: there was something about the encounter that was sweet, almost naive. At sunset they opened a Malbec, and feasted on the leftovers in her fridge which he somehow, almost magically, transformed. The Malbec gone, their robes fell again and they tore at each other recklessly, furiously, more savagely than before, until they collapsed and slept.

When she woke, she was alone. The dishes were done and put away, everything was in its place. She wondered if she had dreamt the whole thing: it had seemed so vivid, but there wasn’t a trace of him anywhere. No note. Nothing.

On her way out in the morning, she saw it on the hook by the door: a Montecristi fino-fino. She plucked it down and hugged it to her, breathing in the last thin, wispy cloud of his aroma.