The Write Thing

I wonder what it is. Perhaps it is San Francisco with its intoxicating charms and the feeling that everything is possible. No other city in the world will allow you to walk holding hands, or playfully caress her arm across the table, without thinking that somebody is looking at you and disapproving. Elsewhere, somebody always is…Here, you are hailed as an “Obama girl” by the homeless who will lure you into handing them a coin “in support of your cause”.

I wonder what it is. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of sharing a room with a stranger and feeling so at ease that you stop considering that you are living a borrowed time in a magical place away from home. Maybe it is because you live in different cities but you pretend that you do not, because she insisted, because she fought for me, because she listens to me, because she really wants me more than her fear would advise her to…and life has taught me to start giving that its proper value. Maybe it is because she holds no expectations, because she unravels softly, because we will both be open to whatever comes out of this, until we are no more.

I cannot account for this, because it is coming to me anew. “I am not in love”, says the song, “but I’m open to persuasion”. I do not know if I am, or if the remoteness from a hot and humid Buenos Aires is playing tricks on me. I wish I could have a better grip on the intensity of souls meeting, I wish I knew the way out…but there she is, subtle, almost imperceptible, getting in.