He had been asked to write something, a eulogy for his long-time friend.
He sat, pen poised over paper. It was actually quite ironic that he should have been asked to talk about the man. He really didn’t know him at all well; nobody did. The deceased was a very private man. Yes, they’d attended the same school, and yes he had been in touch with him half a dozen times over the following five decades, but he didn’t know him. He only knew what little most others did. He was shy and kept very much to himself. He had come into money as a young man and used it to live modestly, but at the same time he had travelled a great deal.
He was not a particularly happy man. In fact, he often suffered from bouts of depression. He had never married. He was a sad, lonely individual who seemingly travelled from country to country in search of what… adventure, romance, love, passion, who knows?
Although, in truth, according to the very last time they caught up it seems he found all of these in spades in a small town in Paraguay, the night a promiscuous chamber maid took him down to the hotel’s subterranean wine cellar.
He dropped the pen.
No, he couldn’t talk about that!
