The Write Thing

There are several songs that speak about love originating in friendship. One of my favorite blogs has several entries dealing with the When Sally met Sally conundrum. A skeptical side of me resisted the idea. How could we ever become anything more than friends? Why would we? We were so comfortable around each other as it was, seeing movies, art exhibits and having delightful dinners together in gourmet restaurants that only foreigners living in Buenos Aires frequent (before TimeOut finds them and condemns them to obnoxious tourist-catering slavery). We would speak about everything, and then would share a drive to her precious flat. We would part with a friendly kiss on the cheek at the door, and would write each other occasional emails before the next meeting, potentially the weekend after or whenever our agendas would allow.

But let’s be objective — therefore, resort to the third person. Seven months passed since the first meeting at Rond Point. One of them spent quite a lot of time abroad in that period, on business, and a couple of times they would send each other emails, opening up to the other and getting closer in an imperceptible way. The traveler returned, and they agreed to meet on an odd day of the week, as one normally agrees to do when things flow. It was a Tuesday. It was July. It was cold. The original idea, visiting a veggie restaurant in Laprida and Beruti, went sour when they learned that the kitchen closed at 8.00 pm. They had to change the plan. Indian? Sounds nice. A table by the window, a nice talk, life stories retold with humor on both sides. There was a certain music playing, there was a rhythm to their words. Until she mentioned she sometimes wondered where we were…and I, the traveler, held my breath in disbelief. Are we just friends? Should we just be friends? We both agreed that we did not know, and neither wanted to write a script on her own. I drove her to her place, as usual, and we hesitated before the first soft romantic kiss. We decided Saturday was a good day to fix another rendez-vous, and we did.

Saturday arrived. Cubism exhibit, Museo de Bellas Artes. A lesbian couple that stood ecstatic before a Juan Gris painting sealed their own communion of souls with a beautiful kiss as they held hands along the corridor. We simply looked, and continued with our own plan, each of us thinking of what would happen next. We had an exquisite dinner in a cozy small restaurant not far from the Museo de Arte Decorativo. We talked, we laughed, we connected…as we always had.

We walked to her place and, for the first time, she invited me in. There, we decided to take our feelings slowly, as we had taken our minds and our spirits along the road of the wonderful connection between us. We kissed…and for the first time understood the meaning of Klimt’s masterpiece.

Inevitably, in moments like this, there has to be Orlando in my life. Nothing better to show my feelings as our mouths expressed their mutual passion:

‘Madam,’ the man cried, leaping to the ground, ‘you’re hurt!’
‘I’m dead, sir!’ she replied.

My friend L is now a world to discover. The L word…at last.