Death In The Middle

Somewhere in that little nook that has become our rendezvous, in that oh-so-familiar little bar in the middle of Hollywood Road, called Volume, in the middle of the week close to midnight, I was in the middle of a friendly conversation, amidst men intoxicated by free vodka, talking on the top of their lungs, so that their voices could drown the blaring music coming overhead, when, with a sense of urgency, he came up to me and said, "I have something to tell you."

I asked him what it was.

And, with both pride and coyness, like a child showing his teacher his artwork, and with a misplaced accent, common to caucasians trying to speak my language, he said to me, "Mahal kita."

I felt, in the middle of my chest, a heart just died a thousand joyous deaths.