“Get a cup of tea with me, at 7?”
Tomorrow would the the last morning of our trip – a few days in a mansion cross between Jaipur haveli and a French hotel a la Queen’s Gambit.
His friendship meant so much to me. I knew he felt the same about mine.
Romance had long been resolved, but intimacy remained.
Even though we had been on this trip together, it was with a large group wrapped around the hungama of a wedding, and I wanted some time for just the two of us. The quiet time before everyone awoke, to talk about anything and most likely nothing at all.
I slipped the scribble on hotel stationary note under his door before retiring into my room.
Just before turning the door handle, I decided against it and turned to walk towards the stairs instead. I climbed the two extra stories to get to the rooftop verandah by the hotel bar, where the staff was cleaning up to close. Still riding the inertia of wedding festivities and not ready to let go of this place, this week, or this trip yet, I found a swinging hammock chair to nestle in and stare at the sky. I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, to let the moon and stars burn themselves into my retina, the soft breeze soak into my pores, and the mixed smell of leftover indian food /burn of firecrackers/fresh jasmines file away in the olafactory-memory part of my brain.
I thought about the term I heard from an episode of the Modern Love podcast the other day: platonic romance. I remember being surprised and relieved that there was such a term that could describe what we had. That made the relationship seem more normal, even though I kind of liked the kind of weird it was.
Our relationship was wrought out of almost-dating, a globby spot of mutual attraction and mixed signals. We called it getting through a “whatever that was.” As he put it, we got to witness some of the most vulnerable parts of each other – the raw fleshy part that comes from putting your heart out there for someone else – and still get to talk about it, still want to be in each other’s lives even if the way you initially wanted to didn’t work out.
Maybe it’s because we’re both analytical and talkers, I thought, that we could talk so openly about our thoughts and feelings as a way to process them; turn every stone and leave almost nothing unsaid between us.
We could collaborate creatively, dissect our respective relationships, say we loved each other and remark what a handsome couple we made, phone in the middle of a sobbing mess or long car ride, call out each other’s bullshit, and casually discuss the validity of pedophilia as a serious medical condition. What more could you ask for?
The next morning, I went to the library room and saw him sitting in an armchair next to a window facing the east garden. Hazy warm sunlight suffused through. There was no need to text to confirm meeting up, or even who he’d be meeting with.
“Aw man,” he said smiling, turning around as I walked up. “I thought you’d be the cutie in the pink dress from last night.”
“Yeah, she told me to break the news to you gently,” I said, taking the armchair across from him. “She thinks you’re sweet, but isn’t into guys who sweat that heavily on the dance floor.”
*Based on a real dream, the kind that blends reality with fiction with sights you’re not sure where they’re pulled from. Any identification with actual persons outside of the two protagonists (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is not intended but totally awesome.
audriac 