Curt and I slide into the back seat of Miguel's sedan, and we pull away.

"So my father tells me you are musician?", David turns in his seat, towards me.

"Um, well, yes," I point a finger back and forth between us. "We both are."

"Oh, the both of you? I did not realize. What instrument do you play?"

"Well I play sort of … sing, and play guitar."

"Me too."

"Ah, my little brother, he likes the guitar. Perhaps you can help him with his lessons?"

"Sure."

David addresses Curt.

"My father tells me you are American."

"Ya."

David grins.

"Michigan- you have no idea how excited my mother is. We have grown up hearing of Michigan."

"I can't wait to talk with her about it."

"Yes, it is a small world, no?"

Curt nods.

"Right. Tiny."

Miguel pipes up, looking into the rear view mirror as he speaks to Curt.

"So is this how you two met? You played in a musical group?"

"Um, well, no. He and I were playing in separate bands on the same night, that's how we met."

"And you ran into each other?"

"Ya, pretty much."

David asks, grinning.

"You fell in love immediately?"

Curt and I exchange glances. He hesitates. "Um …"

I pipe in.

"Yes!"

We, all four, laugh.

David continues.

"Miguel and I," he turns and smiles at him, "he was my teacher, when I was, how do you say, in high school, but we did not get together until later." He laughs softly. "He has a daughter almost my age."

Miguel pipes in.

"Oh, well, she is 19, and you are 23, so …"

Curt's eyes widen.

"You have a kid ?"

The car is silent for a beat. I fidget awkwardly. It's hard to know what's considered rude with people of a different culture.

Miguel answers.

"When I was very young, I married. I did not know myself then. In those days in Spain, no one was homosexual, even if you were. It was not allowed."

David looks at him.

"It's still not allowed."

"Well, but it is much better than it was. Your father, your family, are very understanding. My family was not. No one was."

He turns to speak in the mirror again.

"What about your family, Curt?"

Curt coughs.

"Um, well, they were not all that … understanding."

"But they accept you now?", David asks.

Curt fidgets.

"Oh, well … ya."

David smiles. "I am glad for you."

As we near the house, David tells us of the dinner.

"It is the second Friday of the month, and every second Friday my mother cooks a very large meal and we invite everyone, my two uncles and their families, some of my father's friends and their wives, people from the neighborhood, everyone!" He grins. "It is very festive. And my mother is an excellent cook."

"Well it was really very kind of your father to invite us."

The car pulls in front of what appears to my eyes to be a rather large home. A bit old, but clean and well kept.

We get out and walk toward the house. There is a large patio with a couple of oversized picnic tables pushed together, a very long table cloth, candles, and umbrellas, folded linen napkins, a couple of centerpieces, etc. Curt and I clasp hands and look at each other. It's much fancier than either of us had expected. I squeeze Curt's hand. He gets a bit nervous in big crowds, especially when, as the American, he's likely to draw some attention.

"It's not like on stage. I have my band with me and in a way, I can hide up there. People aren't making conversation with you and looking you right in your eye."

A woman and a younger girl exit the house carrying plates. The woman breaks into a huge broad grin and calls to David excitedly as she sets down the dinnerware.

"Introduce us!"

She's standing before me smiling ear to ear.

"Mama, this is Brian, from England."

I can't help but detect a slight lessening of her smile. She thought I was the American. Still, she is gracious and welcoming, leaning forward to take both of my hands and exchange sideways cheek kisses- very European.

"I'm Maria. We're very excited by our guests tonite. We're thrilled in fact; we hardly ever have foreigners at the house. I've never been to England, but I would dearly love to some day."

I hand her the wine bottle. It survived the afternoon's tryst nicely.

"OH, thank you so much!"

She kisses me on the cheek again. It's as if she's never been brought a gift. She genuinely seems a peach. Very attractive too. Slim, blond, fit. If she's this much of a knockout now, I can fully understand Manuel's dilemma in the early days of their marriage.

She turns to Curt and the smile expands.

"Mama, this is Curt–"

"–From Michigan!" She shrieks, and grasps his hands tightly, bursting out laughing, as do we all.

Curt smiles and blushes visibly.

"Ya."

"Boy am I gonna talk YOUR head off tonite!"

General laughter.

They do the sideways kiss, and she steps back to survey us.

"David, your father reeled in a couple of good looking boys here. Are either of you spoken for?"

David frowns and wags his finger back and forth between us.

"Mama! Stop this talk! They are together!"

She covers her mouth and laughs softly.

"Oh, I forgot. Sorry! I've been in Spain for most of my life now, but I've never been able to completely shake the loudmouth American in me." She looks at David. "I'll be good, I promise."

He kisses her forehead and walks over to Miguel, who sits at a side table in the corner.

Maria turns to the young girl, who as best I can tell is about 13. Pretty thing, petite, with dark curly hair, taking after her father.

"Bella, honey, this is Curt and Brian."

The girl looks down shyly and whispers hello.

"I have another one, someplace on the premises." She turns to Bella. "Honey, will you go and fetch Juan? Bring him outside, please."

The girl turns and runs into the house.

"Um, can we help at all?"

"No, no. Please, sit and be comfortable. It's a gorgeous evening." She enters the house.

Curt takes out a cigarette. He's clearly nervous.

I whisper to him.

"Y'okay?"

"Mm. See you've never really seen this side of me. It's embarrassing. I'm insecure as fuck."

My heart melts.

"Curt, you have no idea how amazing you are. It'll be fine. She loves you already. Plus … I mean, you look incredibly beautiful right now, just so you know."

He frowns.

"Oh well, good. Hopefully my 'beauty' will carry me through the night."

David calls to us.

"Please! Come sit with us. My mother will be unhappy with me that you stand."

We walk over and take seats at the small table. Miguel puffs on a short caramel colored cigarette. Just then, David's sister appears, with her younger brother in tow. David speaks to her.

"Bella … introduce your brother to our guests."

The boy is 12 or so. Dirty blond hair, pale eyes, obviously getting his coloring from his mother. Very sweet faced. A budding looker.

Bella turns formally to the boy.

"Este es mi hermano–"

David interrupts.

"–Bella, English, for our guests."

She blushes, and starts over, speaking slowly, with a very thick accent.

"This is my brother, Juan."

David turns to us.

"Juan is interested in music." He turns to Juan. "They play music for their craft, Juan."

Juan squints at his brother, not understanding.

"Músicos."

("Musicians.")

Juan looks excitedly at us both. He speaks better than his sister, but not much.

"Rock y roll?"

All smile.

I answer.

"Yes. It's our favorite, er, muy preferido."

The boy grins and nods his head.

David speaks.

"Juan, they might help you with your guitar later, okay?"

The boy's face lights up. He nods and runs back into the house, with Bella following close.

As David discusses his family, and tells us of his other sister who has started college on the mainland, I take the opportunity to observe Miguel out of the corner of my eye. Up close, here in the bright daylight, he has the most amazing set of big, dark eyes, with crows feet at the edges. His thick, close cropped chestnut brown hair has specks of gray at the temples. The word I want to use for him is 'distinguished', if it didn't make him sound so bloody antiquated. I'm guessing he's maybe twice David's age, which, I mean, IS antiquated. I can't imagine being with someone that old, but at the same time, he's such an obvious top, both by virtue of the age difference, and just by his demeanor, which is slow and measured, that I would hardly say no.

I have no idea how Curt feels about him, but I'll be dying to talk about it later, when we get home.

David, by contrast, looks even younger than his 23 years. He has a round, boyish face, with incredibly long eyelashes and thick wavy dark hair. He's a bit on the slim side, while Miguel is definitely more the rugged.

Maria and Bella exit the house, carrying large pots to the table.

"Mama, you don't want help?"

"No, honey. Stay where you are, with our guests."

Miguel calls to her.

"Hello, Maria."

She doesn't look. She nods, and whispers his name as she walks by our table, and back into the house. Curt and I exchange glances.

Miguel laughs and turns to us.

"Even after all this time, Maria dislikes me. I'm not good enough for her son."

"She doesn't dislike you."

"Of course she does, David. I, how do you say, robbed her cradle."

Miguel addresses us again.

"The father though, we get along very well." He laughs to himself. "Otherwise, I probably would not be allowed in the house."

David looks displeased.

"Miguel, let us not discuss such things in front of our guests."

Maria returns with Bella, and now Juan, bringing yet more food to the table, before leaving again.

Miguel speaks, addressing us both, but looks at Curt.

"So, you are fans of rock and roll. Have you been to the rock club in town?"

"Yes, just briefly," I offer. "We opened the door to look inside, but then we left."

"It was too loud," Curt adds. I resist the urge to burst out laughing.

"So you have never really been inside? How strange." He's still looking at Curt. "It seems it would be a place you would enjoy."

It's getting harder and harder to ignore the attention Miguel gives Curt, and the growing edge, it seems, to his words.

Bella exits the house and carries a large plate of salad in her arms.

"Careful!" David yells.

"Shut up!" she answers.

We laugh.

Miguel calls to her.

"Bella, you're getting prettier every day. You will marry me when you are older, yes?"

"No!", she snaps, and runs inside.

"She IS getting very pretty, David. I hope you are watching out for her."

David is sullen.

"She's not interested in boys, yet."

"But they are interested in her, I would bet. Or soon will be." He turns. "Right, Curt?"

Curt's head snaps round. He's blows out the drag he's just inhaled.

"Hmm? I-I wouldn't know."

"No? You like girls, don't you?"

Curt looks at Miguel for the first time.

David is agitated. "Miguel, what are you talking about? Curt is–"

I cough.

"We're both bisexual."

David looks at me.

"I'm married, myself."

"You are married?"

"Yes, but we're very … my wife and I are very … estranged. Practically divorced."

David looks down. He seems uncomfortable.

"I see."

There is an awkward pause. Miguel stubs out his cigarette and places a hand on David's upper arm.

"Why don't you give your guests a tour of the place?"

David stands. "Yes, of course."

We step into the house behind him.

"I am sorry for Miguel. He is a good man but tonite there is something bothering him. Normally, he is very friendly."

We are given the tour of the entire structure, which seems much bigger on the inside, then on our way back through the kitchen, in walks Manuel, arms spread wide, grinning.

"My boys!"

We each hug him, like prodigal sons.

"I am so pleased you have come! My wife will fill your stomachs until you cannot walk!" He bellows out a laugh.

Maria joins him. He wraps an arm round her back.

"Yes, they'll be so stuffed, they won't be able to move. They'll be stuck to their chairs, and captive for our discussion!"

"Michigan!" Manuel shouts.

We laugh. She turns to him.

"Manny, help me serve, please."

She turns to us.

"David, seat your guests. Dinner is nearly ready."

By the time dinner is served, there are at least 20 guests aside from us, each of whom greets us excitedly, but especially Curt, as the American, and fellow Michegoneon to Maria. I watch, protectively, as he seems to get shyer and shyer with every introduction. Eventually however, once we are sat down to feast, the conversation and laughter up and down the long table seems to relax him, along with the presence of a doting Maria to his left, and blushing Bella to his right. I smile over the sight of him flanked by two women, both of whom, it's rapidly becoming obvious, have developed a crush. He does look particularly radiant tonite, and in his shyness, especially boyish and sweet.

The meal is extensive, and extremely delicious. Roast of lamb, chicken, mashed and boiled potatoes, warm tangy squash, asparagus, mango salsa, homemade stuffing, corn on the cob, homemade bread and dinner rolls, plenty of wine and beer, and cider for the children. And for desert, an array of homemade pies. Interesting to note, no fish.

The talk at the table however, is of fish, the take in the ocean these days (abundant), the town's restrictions on same, the politics of the whole thing, etc. I am asked about life in London, and a few guests share their own stories of visits to the English countryside.

Curt meanwhile, is hunkered down the whole time with Maria in deep conversation about their beloved state, and most of all city, Ann Arbor.

One guest, an older man who I believe to be Manuel's brother, mock-shouts in their direction.

"Maria! You are hogging the American!"

Laughter.

She puts her hand on Curt's shoulder and turns briefly away to snap at the man.

"Yes Pedro, I am! What are you gonna do about it?"

The table erupts.

As my eyes wander, I spy Miguel and David. The latter laughs, while the former doesn't, though his eyes are solidly on Curt. The look he gives is hard to interpret. It seems to be one of confrontation, challenge. I turn my head in Curt's direction, and see that he's too wrapped up in Maria to notice. I look back at Miguel, whose steely gaze hasn't wavered. Then I recognize it.

Determination, and desire.

After dinner, the table is cleared. Maria has brought out a photo album to show Curt her girlhood in Ann Arbor. He seems thrilled, and the two smile and laugh together and enjoy much private discussion.

I sit briefly with Miguel, Manuel and David. When Juan wanders by, his father addresses him.

"Juan, go and get su guitarra."

"Si, papa."

And he's off. David smiles and looks at me.

"He doesn't need to be told twice. He will want to play a song for the crowd." He looks at his father. "And then papa will serenade us with Spanish love songs."

Manuel grins.

"Yes. I play a bit of classical guitar. Not very well, but my voice is strong."

"Wow, I didn't know."

"Yes, and then you will sing for us," Manuel adds.

I'm horrified.

"Um, oh well, I only know … awful pop songs. Really, they aren't very good."

"But it is your craft!", David pipes in earnestly.

"Oh, well, yes, but–"

Miguel jumps in.

"–What about your friend Curt? He can sing, no?"

"Oh, well yes, but he, his tastes are–."

"It is of no concern," Manuel says. "We would like music from our guests."

"Yes, definitely," Miguel adds, eyes firmly on Curt.

First, there is Juan. The guests sit, relaxed, sipping wine, and listen attentively to his carefully fingered piece. It's a bit awkward, too fast, but heartfelt. The look of concentration on his face is wonderfully sweet. Afterwards, the guests applaud enthusiastically.

Next, the guitar is handed off to his father, who performs a quite beautiful classical piece, sung with reverence, after which, Maria stands and kisses him on the mouth.

"Lovely, Manuel!"

Next, the guitar is handed to me. It's immediately strange, as for the first time this evening, I understand Curt's nervousness, for the 20 plus eyes upon me feel more penetrating than a crowd of 20,000, by virtue of the intimacy of the setting, I suppose. Still, I manage to eek out a not too badly botched version of a lovely old Irish hymn my grandmother used to sing when I was a boy. At one point in the process I catch sight of Curt. His eyes are extremely soft, warm, and loving, as he looks back. By the time the song ends, and the crowd is clapping, I'm sure out of politeness, my face is purple.

And finally, it's Curt's turn, with Maria his biggest champion. She holds her hands on either side of her mouth as he sits before us. "Sing the Michigan fight song!"

Curt looks down and responds shyly as he positions himself on the stool.

"Um, I don't know it. Sorry, Maria."

Laughter.

"What, then?" She shouts good naturedly.

"Um, y'know, I don't know. I haven't played in a long while. Um, but I've had a couple of songs in my head of late." He fidgets nervously. "Not sure which one to do."

"Do both!" She shouts.

He smiles.

"Um, well," he laughs, "lemme try one, and then we'll see. This one's a pretty good song, not Spanish, or classical, though, sorry."

He looks down and begins plucking out a particularly lovely intro, which breaks down suddenly, messily.

"Sorry." He takes a breath. His face colors. "I've never played it before."

Manuel, arm around Maria, speaks softly.

"It is okay, senor. Please start again."

I'm holding my breath for him. The sight of my angel boy, who can so easily knock a crowd back on it's feet, nervous and struggling …

He grasps the guitar, shuts his eyes, opening them only briefly at times to watch his fingers change position, and begins singing softly, with a beauty, with an ethereal quality I've never once heard from him before. It pierces my soul.

I was dreaming of the past.
And my heart was beating fast,
I began to lose control,
I began to lose control.

I didn't mean to hurt you,
I'm sorry that I made you cry,
I didn't want to hurt you,
I'm just a jealous guy.

I was feeling insecure,
You night not love me any more,

I was shivering inside,
I was swallowing my pain.

I didn't mean to hurt you,
I'm sorry that I made you cry,
I didn't want to hurt you,
I'm just a jealous guy.

My eyes fill up. The flood of emotions is hard to contain. My heart bursts nearly out of my chest, with pride, with love, with hurt, even, over the boy in him. Mostly though, I'm completely and utterly blown to bits. First, I had no idea- the sheer beauty and delicacy with which he sings is again, something I've simply never heard out of him before. Stupidly, I didn't know he was capable. Also, I mean, he can sing like this, and he chooses not to? We're going to have a serious discussion about this later.

Secondly, the subject matter! It may be Lennon's words, but it's pure Curt. Raw, and real. Heartbreaking in it's nakedness and vulnerability. And also, coming from such a small place, a position of such powerlessness, and unashamedly so. You absolutely cannot look the other way.

Jesus, I want to run up and throw my arms around him.

As he finishes, he opens his eyes and looks down. There is a pregnant pause, after which, the guests burst into wild applause, led by Maria, who shoots to her feet, whistling loudly with two fingers in her mouth.

"More, more!" She shouts, stamping her feet.

Bella, next to her, shouts for more as well, and I with them.

His face colors further. He looks at me. We share a giant grin.

"Okay, okay," he laughs softly. "Um, this is the other song I had in my head. It's a favorite of mine."

He repositions his hands on the guitar neck and sings almost in a whisper.

"After all the jacks are in their boxes,
and the clowns have all gone to bed,
you can hear happiness staggering on down the street,
footprints dress in red.
And the wind whispers Mary.

A broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.
Somewhere a Queen is weeping,
somewhere a King has no wife.

And the wind, it cries Mary.

The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed,
The tiny island sags downstream
'Cos the life that they lived is dead."

He smiles at Bella and sings to her.

"And the wind screams BELLA."

She blushes and grins and turns her face into her mother's arm.

He finishes the last verse.

"Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past,
And with it's crutch, it's old age and it's wisdom
It whispers, 'No, this will be the last.'

He looks up at Maria and smiles for the final line.

"And The Wind Cries MARIA."

She whoops and laughs softly, clutching Manuel's arm. The song ends as it began, with a pretty slide-guitar style riff, and the crowd jumps to it's feet, with several people approaching him personally.

I want to run up, push everyone away and shower him with kisses. Maria turns to me excitedly and grabs my hands.

"You are a lucky man, Brian! He's not only easy on the eyes, but plays beautifully, and sings like an angel!"

She and Manuel walk with me over to him. His smile is so wide, so serene, I want to cry. My hand cups his face and we kiss softly, and fold each other into a hug.

"I love you," I whisper. I go to pull away but he holds me a moment longer, and speaks into my ear. "I'm so fucking happy right now, you have no idea."

I pull back and look at him. His eyes are shining. Mine spill over with joy.

Maria turns to Manuel. "Oh, Manny, see how they're in love! It reminds me of us, back then!"

We look at Manuel and share a knowing smile.

Juan approaches Curt, who hands him the guitar.

"Juan, do you want the boys to show you things on your guitar now?"

"Si! Si!"

I volunteer, and sit with him at the side table. Various guests mill about, laughing, telling stories in Spanish, and sipping wine. The night is still young here.

Curt moves off into the far corner to smoke, and I notice that as soon as David exits the patio, Miguel makes a beeline.

Author's note:

The songs Curt sings are "Jealous Guy" by John Lennon, and "Wind Cries Mary" by Jimi Hendrix.

Just to clarify, and not to be too defensive, but it dawned on me to establish that I was most definitely not influenced by freaking Twilight when selecting the name of Maria and Miguel's daughter, "Bella". I have an Aunt Bella, and that, and the fact that I found Bella in a list of Spanish girls' names were the reasons I picked the name, thank you.