And there he was, sitting on your couch, showing as a reflection of the past the trash you turned into when John told you he couldn't do it anymore.

I scanned the room, noticing several people studying or talking quietly with their friends, until someone caught my eye. He was staring at me, but looked away when I looked back. I started to notice him, his way as he read his books, his looks of boredom when reading them, but to be honest, he had nothing in common with the men I used to be interested in. Every now and then he would look at me, his expression not very easy to distinguish, and I would look at him, too, surreptitiously, over the top of my big 70s glasses.

The mistakes of a corrosive past but still alive, united in a look at the still happy present.

He was sure that he loved John and that John loved him. Until that new year...

<em> Why was she still looking at the sodden sidewalk with people running around with their colorful umbrellas? </em>

<em>" John ran his fingers over one more star, prying it easily from the top, dropping it into the bag attached to his ladder." </em>