Inside their friends place, a place I had recently been to before, we sat down to drink. Dylan went to turn on the hot tub. It was the last we saw of him that evening. John, excited and hyper, moved from one spot to another, from room to room, as he explained his past and his life. He lived in Cambridge with his parents, a Portuguese family. He was a student of the university there.
Not too long ago, he told me he had spent some time in Europe. The photographs of this trip filled an enormous album which he was quite happy to show me. I moved through this book slowly, completely taking in each image. For nearly every monument in Europe, a photo existed where John stood alongside it. These pictures went on forever, as his face did with them, showing an endless smile as my fingers moved slowly over each page.
This same smile hung over me at my side. It watched me as it waited patiently. I could feel its intensity now . . . its intentions. This was not an ordinary smile. It was a smile which did not wish to smile alone, hoping soon that it would be joined by my own, and discovering the sensation of its touch.
"It's getting late," John told me. "Do you want to crash out in the guest bedroom?"