Now more and more people come in from other rooms, going about their lives, not taking great notice of me, but not unfriendly, either.

Guitar music filters down from above, sad and beautiful. I look up to seo a young black man perched in a rafter, playing to himself. Yet his music seems a gift to everyone; his way of saying that he is there, and that he feels.

Everyone flops down for a rest together. I presume to join them, and no one objects. Our bodies all touch and I feel warm and secure, though I know no one.

When it's time to leave and we are all getting up, she says to no one in particular, "But I think there are a lot of other things I've yet to experience." And she looks at me with a frank, unexaggerated warmth in her eyes. "Excuse me for that," I say to her, referring to my erection. "Don't ever apologize for that," she whispers to me as she brushes against my face. I feel so happy I could burst.

As I type this page, I suddenly find myself crying.