Juan

His name was Juan, and he smelled of coconut.
He drank whisky sours and wore a black "Metallica" tee-shirt.
He was small and frail, and he said that we were all psychotic.
He asked me if I was, I said "No, are you"?
He laughed and said that he was only kidding.

He said that I seemed "good natured" and asked me if it was true.
I smiled.
We talked in short spurts, with awkward silences in between.

He escaped to make a phone call and I moved to the dance floor to watch a video on the big screen. Then I moved to the balcony.

Later, I came across him in the crowd. He had two drinks in hand, one meant for me. I merely tasted mine and held the glass.

He said that he needed a ride home. He admitted that he had too much to drink. He put his arm around my shoulder as if I were a new friend or a trophy he had captured. I smiled to myself.

After a little while, he disappeared once more into the crowd , saying that he hoped to see me again. We did, just as I was leaving. He was surprised by the fact that I was leaving alone. We shook hands and parted ways. He had a firm handshake.

I still hold this image of him in my mind: something fragile, something strong.
His name was Juan, and he smelled of coconut.