He stood up from the couch, soft and comfortable and unwelcome, and moved through the crowd. His eyes had to be sharp, and his tongue biting. A harsh word from a woman to her friend was interrupted with his gifts. A man discussing his soft son had fresh olive on his mustache pointed out. To a group making comments about the party, he gave jokes and riddles. All of them laughed, they all did - but never when the gift was given to them. And when he left, to go to his cramped apartment, far from the sweet smelling river, to take off the white oils polluting his face and the clothing which stuck to him like a wet towel on a humid day, he and the host were the only ones feeling merry. He did not begrudge the host. He always stood alone and apart, and in him, something was familiar in the eyes. Something hard and rich and kind, that in another life, may have been a roomate, filled with joy and far from the river, and far from the house where revelers took what merriment was offered.