Tristan's eyes lingered on the top button even after the man had removed his hand. Then he looked down at his empty glass and remembered that he didn't even know if he liked Mr. Meijer as a person and that he had principles. Principles that had been shaken by the newspaper reports this morning.

If Wilde got sentenced, romance was dead. The best he could hope for was fleeting encounters with quick satisfaction, only to never see a partner again, or to pretend not to know one another. No slow courting, no intimate friendships that blossomed into more, no time lay gazing upon a man's beauty, cherishing the softness and warmth of someone's skin under his fingers, admiring tiny details like batting of an eye, the shape of a birthmark, or anything else that made love love. If Wilde got sentenced, intimate friendships, love letters, and truly being with someone would all be too dangerous.

"I'm a doctor, sir, not a poet. I'm afraid my style is practical."