“There’s something I should tell you,” John said. He reached into his pocket and took out a small item. When he placed it on the table, Dan almost collapsed with happiness.

He took the tiny whirlpool tile and stroked it carefully.

“Oh my God! Obviously, I saw it. It’s -- it’s so cool.”

He carefully traced the outline of the moustache, fingers going round and round as if they could not stop. After a while he realised the sensation was part of a much bigger force which he could not fight, even if he wanted to.

“I made it. It -- it’s my art,” John said.

“You did? But why?” Dan asked, though now he had touched the art, he could see it needed no justification.

He traced the whirlpool again, noting how it made him dizzy and excited and was generally the best thing ever -- ever -- ever.

“It’s fabulous. Absolutely fabulous,” Dan said, noticing John had gone quiet, a bit red, and he would not meet his eyes.

“Are you all right? John? What is it?”

He guessed he had done something wrong. A silent and invisible pressure tugged at his chest.

“Yeah!” John finally said.

He opened his mouth like he was about to talk, and then clamped it shut again. When he finally spoke, he sounded defeated and sad.

“I attached it to the ciggie factory for you. I hoped you’d see it! People -- I don’t tell people anymore. I, like, make tile paintings. Sometimes vampires, sometimes moustaches. The day I start something new, like a job, I stick them up on a wall to bring me luck. Take them down again the day after! I don’t know why -- it’s stupid, I guess. I’ve done it ever since I started school and now, I can’t stop. Stupid, right?”

As John spoke, Dan continued to stroke the lines of the tile whirlpool. He understood the force, what it meant, and that there was no going back.