Through the crowd of people, I spot a mane of curly brown hair. The man's hair is styled in a way that seems as though it curls infinitely. Swirling, and swirling, and swirling in a way that will never ever stop. 

His shoulders are broad and show off his tiny waist. I know that he's new and not in the way that he's abandoned every rule about what to wear to a ball vs a gala vs a birthday bash. His outfit is all wrong. The see-through white blouse and pink and gold sequin suit jacket don't give away his freshness, however. His freshness is given away elsewhere. 

The way in which he smiles. He smiles with his face and not just his lips. As if everyone he passes deserves to see his beautiful smile. Everyone else passes around gentle upturning of the corners of their mouths, but this man smiles with his eyes and his lips and his nose wrinkles and his jaw tenses. 

The way in which he gleams. He radiates a softness that the rough Hollywood exterior strips you from. He glows soft and gentle like a Los Angeles virgin, untouched to the harshness of the industry. 

The way in which he chats. In-depth and passionately to everyone. I know that my girlfriend would despise the way he chats. He doesn't do so quietly or with any indications that he wants anything. He doesn't adjust his initialed cuff links or dust off the shoulders of his Prada suit jacket or glance at his shiny 24 karat gold watch in a way to show that he's better than you. 

I see the way the producers look at him. They all want to destroy him, devour him, tear him to shreds and milk him for all he's worth. The gleam in their eyes are of hungry lions watching an innocent lamb. 

I may not know who Rodgers is, or what relations we may have, but I silently thank him for presenting the man to me.