He was called Fabrício and said he came from Rocinha in Rio de Janeiro. It was the tattoo I noticed first, a bird on his neck, and I was suspicious of guys who had tattoos. We sat drinking beer at the counter. The barman cleaned up. The night was ending.

“What is your name?” “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “What are you doing here?”

Fabrício wanted to talk, but I was tired, and came across as being rude.

Tito’s Vodka. Corn Whiskey. Pama Pomegranate Liqueur. RumChata. Rye Whiskey. Southern Comfort. Tennessee Whiskey. Jack Daniel’s. Bourbon.

I read the labels on the bottles behind the bar.

In the mirror I saw two guys. And I found a thousand things wrong with me, but only the bird on Fabrício’s neck.

“I’m gonna make a change, for once in my life. It’s gonna feel real good. Gonna make a difference. Gonna make it right.”

Fabrício gently sang the opening verse from Man in the Mirror. It was a sweet voice. I could not sing.

I looked in the reflection and noticed him looking at me. It reminded me of a scene in Rebel Without a Cause where Plato looks at Jim with a look of adoration. A coded declaration of love. Gay desire.

“I’m starting with the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways. And no message could have been any clearer. If they wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself, and then make a change.”

That was it. The first time for me. We had met in a hotel bar in Fort Lauderdale and ended up making love behind a stack of deck chairs on the beach, protected by the roar of the sea, and waiting for the cop with a torch and gun.