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July 19, 2003
He was the most beautiful specimen of manhood I'd ever seen. We sat down, lit cigarettes, started talking. He'd been robbed in Hong Kong, hadn't sorted his money yet. I offered to share my room, you do that on the road, besides, I was vacating at 4am, standing-by on another over-sold flight.

I didn't get on. I trudged back up the stairs, knocked on the-door-that-had-been-mine. He opened it, shirt off, soft, brown skin, sympathy.

"You didn't get on!"
I started crying.
"I've got to get back to my life."
"This is your life," he said.

I rolled into his arms.