The vial slipped out of his pocket and danced on the silver string. "Of course," said Samuel. He set down the pipe and measured out one dose. Don Juan, leaning with his back against his chest, could do little else than watch it. It happened right in front of his face. The measured out dose hung there in the dropper for a second, glistening. Then Samuel shifted forwards. He put his face next to Don Juan's face, the edge of his jaw and cheekbone and Don Juan's cheek touched. He raised the dropper and for a few moments it seemed unclear towards which mouth it was directed. Then he felt the bitter substance on his tongue and he swallowed. His stomach cramped in anticipation. "All you had to do was ask," he said, almost with sadness. He turned his head. Don Juan's face filled out his field of view. He saw and knew every shape, every hollow in the landscape of this face. "You sure showed me," he told him and looked into his eyes. "You got away, I came after you. You decided you would rather be back on opium and you did that. You showed me—you're the better man between us."

Finish it then, he thought. Send me away and go on with your life. It will be for the better. "You should send me away," he said gently to him. "Go back to that man you love. Surely he is waiting for you."

He had a good and solid face, that one. He was enduring and full of comfort. There was nothing comforting about the man that had his arms around Don Juan in this moment. That man was made from a sharper material. He made people suffer for his love and he couldn't stop.

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