I sat on the far end of the couch, absentmindedly chewing at a fingernail while watching him cautiously out of the corner of my eye. I was pooling all my resources to keep a calm exterior, trying so hard to not sit and stare. I, for one, would not feel comfortable with that type of attention from a stranger - feeling eyes following my every move, ears greedily grabbing every word falling from my mouth. I was afraid to watch him for too long or to let our eyes lock, because it would take only a moment with my guard down and my spellbound face would do all the awkward confessing: I devolved into a fanatic fourteen year old falling quickly for the pop star du jour. But alas, he was different. This was different.

With every twist in his tale there was a slight motion in his fingers, as if he was typing out the manuscript to this incredulous story. As the climax of the story came, he pulled his hat off his head and ran his fingers through his hair, with the moment of silence adding to the drama. I have never seen someone tell a tale with such casual skill. His body language hid any pretension and the nonchalance in delivery made his fantastical gift of storytelling seem as insignificant as brushing teeth or tying shoelaces. It was natural, engaging, and it made me fall hard. A quick survey of the other faces put my rising concerns at ease - we were all under his spell, grasping for his next word as if it were our next fix.

The story? It is completely, wholly irrelevant. What was so critical was this man holding court on this cloth throne could have snubbed the pathetic peons gathered at his feet below. I was in the midst of greatness, and it took great skill to hide the giant smile under my clenched fist. If my hand fell from my mouth, with my grin showing my enthusiasm, the slippery slope would pull me into an unknown abyss with depths incomprehensible. And it would be disconcerting for a total stranger to profess unwavering admiration mere hours after their first introduction.