Picos Gemeos

Friday night in São Paulo, drinks and nibbles with friends at trendy restaurant Muquifo.

One of the beautiful waiters – a slim, curly brown haired man with nail varnish – walks past us. “He just eye fucked you,” laughs Vince.

He eye fucks me some more. I reciprocate with smiles.

“Are you going to leave your phone number?” Vince asks. “Let’s find some paper.”

I scratch my name and number on a napkin then fold it in four. The waiter smiles shyly when I gently touch his shoulder on the way out, say goodbye and hand him the napkin.

He never calls.