I sat on the middle cushion of a couch, my left arm draped over the back of the empty seat next to me. I didn't usually sit in such a manner - my arms are generally kept in my lap or holding a drink - but for some reason, it felt particularly comfortable that night.

The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.

It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.

Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.

It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.

But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.

This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.

Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.