I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
We are sipping wine in a cozy restaurant. His fingers are interlaced with mine. I think for a full minute before answering.
"With you, Joel, I think I am willing to be romanced. I'm less guarded and I'm not as cynical."
"So this isn't the real you?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Do you know who you really are?"
"I think I do. I think the most real personality is the masculine one - the one with no conscience or morality, the one who doesn't give a fuck about good or evil."
"I think you act your life as if you're a character out of a book. You roleplay. Life is an RPG to you. The way you act is governed by how you could write it although it doesn't quite matter if you ever write it down, does it? Am I right?"
There it was. His assessment of my personality made so much sense it humbled me into muteness. He is right. He hit it right on the nose.
"With you I act as if you are the love of my life. I don't sleep with my arm around every girl I have sex with. I don't hold hands. I don't dance in the street with every woman I fuck."
"I know. I don't cuddle as a policy."
"So what the hell are we doing?"
"Laying the foundations of a great story to tell your grandkids and my grandkittens."
He laughs.
"Yeah, most definitely a great story. You're not invited to my wedding, though."
"Bastard. After all I've done for you."
Yeah, it's a funny situation - both Ha Ha and Weird. With Joel I play the ingenue with a predilection for violent games. With me he plays the role of attentive Renaissance man. Outside our little world we each know the other is nothing less than a predator.
Why do we persist with this absurd farce?
The only thing that keeps it alive is the notion of romance - how unusual our circumstances are, how well we fit without clothes on, how our skin contrasted, how exotic we were to each other.
We finally settled on an answer two empty wine bottles later; we refuse to love constantly, but our refusal doesn't mean we don't yearn for mushiness once in a while. And what better option is there for damage control than setting the parameters of the situation? Different continents, different friends, different lives, limited communication - all the ingredients for a successful, enduring affair.
So there we were again, at 4 in the morning, saying goodbye by not saying goodbye.
"I'll see you in another year, beleza."
"We need to go to some island next time. In the summer."
He'd make some lucky girl a great boyfriend, if he ever settles down. Not me, though. I can only be in love with him when I'm in character, and I can only be in character in small doses, in between long periods of separation.
