There are warm arms in the dance hall, warm mouths in the coat room. Kind friends who invite him home on cold nights. Still, sixteen months on, João's heart remains too full for his apartment to be anything but empty.
He keeps a second razor in the cabinet. Stocks beer he doesn't drink. Leaves a light on in the window, and mails hopeless letters care of post offices in Boston and Ciudad de México.
Perhaps he can bear, with bruises, the idea of Calvin never coming back. But he can't bear the thought of him ever believing he was forgotten.