the dance of his eyes and the richness of his laugh. In turn, Jeremiah told me stories of his youth and recounted tales of his many successes.

Surprisingly, I was not consumed with thoughts of him. I was not obsessed or plagued with fantasy. But over time, my playful and innocent desire to be in his company evolved as the playful syntax of friendship gave way to more insistent, provoking thought. Sitting on the porch at home one evening watching the sunset, I realized quite suddenly, that passionate feelings about him lay deep within me, aching for release.

Each of our visits allowed more information to pass between us. At one point, I admitted that I had written about him, and after some hesitation, I shared the first half of this story with him. Several days passed, and I was not offered any feedback, so one day on the telephone I asked. He told me that he had not responded because he couldn’t; he was overwhelmed with both the content and style of what I had written, and felt incapable of returning similar thoughts, at least in quite the same way. After the conversation ended, I placed the telephone back into its cradle and sat for some time, caught dramatically between wanting to shout for joy and wanting to cry. In the end, the flattery he exuded in his response caused me to well up, and for several long moments, I sat alone in my office and cried.

The weeks passed, and Jeremiah managed to find his way to the hotel every so often for lunch and another conversation. I couldn’t get enough of him. The energy of his aura, the grace with which he projected his dreams out into the open, the way his hands danced melodically through the syntax of his expression; it was enthralling, it was captivating, it was magical.

As if under a spell one day during a lunch conversation, I reached across the table and placed my hands on his. Quietly, I looked down at my plate, avoiding eye contact, wondering what his response would be. Several long and apprehension-filled moments passed during which I debated the wisdom of my action; finally, and without moving his hands, he spoke.

“Look at me,” he said, quietly.

I closed my eyes and tilted my head up slowly. Fear and loathing enveloped me, and I hesitated before opening my eyes. Finally, I forced myself to look at him, and he was smiling. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stared back at him, and the warmth of his gaze melted the fear from me, and I relaxed. He withdrew his hands, and placed them atop mine, and grinned. I could see the rapid movement of his eyes, as if he was working carefully to form his next thought. His smile broadened, and he winked.

“You know,” he said. “I’ve never seen your switch room. I don’t suppose you could arrange a tour, could you?”

I expected many things to come out of him, this request was not one of them. For several seconds I was too shocked to understand the request, so I just continued to stare. It was a logical request given his profession, but my mind flew past logic and settled on the only other reason he would want to see it—it was the only place within the massive hotel for which I had the only key. He gripped my hands in his, and squeezed tightly, as if to