“I’m polyamorous,” he said, smoking his cigarette.
“Meaning?” I said.
“I love many people. I don’t know how anybody can love just one,” he said.
He exhaled and watched the smoke rise.
“My best friends is going away,” he said, “not forever, but for a long time. I hope she’ll be happy.”
We leaned against the adjacent wall.
I imagined he did know how to love just one, and did. But who am I to know anything?