He did the only thing I never predicted: he kissed my lips. Credit: Getty Images/Steve Eason.
1996 in Mexico City. The sports club I used to attend hired a new aerobics instructor; Alfred, a blond, sculptural man who would add excitement to my suburban teenage years.
One day Alfred gave me a gift: a badge with his name printed on from the ‘Centro Benessere Spa'Deus’, possession dating from his time in Italy. White letters on a green plastic card. His name was written on the badge in the same way I wrote it in my life: in capitals.
