Few hours after falling asleep we woke up. We stayed in bed for a while, naked under the sheets, our noses touching, looking at each other’s eyes with the dumb look fresh lovers have. It felt like the start of something. It often does. It rarely is.

 

We heard movement in the kitchen and thought we’d join the party. Maria grabbed my Manchester United shorts and a black XL t-shirt, which funnily enough, belonged to Lucas. We got out of the room, curious about what their reaction was going to be. They hadn’t seen anything. As far as they knew, we hadn’t but exchanged a few words in the entire night. I went first. “Mawnin ma’am. Mawnin fuckface.” It’s hard coming up with new nicknames every morning, sometimes you've got to resort to the classics. He was making scrambled eggs. Maria shyly entered the scene. Lucas laughed hysterically and so did we.

 

“What? When did you…what!” Lucas said, his body bent forwards and his hands on his knees as if he needed the support not to fall. 

 

“I told you,” I said. 

 

“Yeah, but…” he turned to her; “you slut.”  

 

She laughed as she hugged his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.

 

We all had breakfast together on the balcony. We made a nice quartet. “Let’s form a band,” I suggested.

​

The four of us hung out periodically in the subsequent days, all under the same roof. It’s amazing what happens when one lets go of the artificial constraints we impose on ourselves and each other. You are not supposed to live with your ex-girlfriend-wife and her boyfriend and his friend who you’re sleeping with. But then again, why the hell not?

 

Maria and I went quickly into couple mode, which is, for better or worse, the only mode I’m familiar with. She introduced me to a world I always wanted to be a part of but never had the chance, or maybe never dared to get out of my comfort zone to do so. She belonged to what some might refer to as the "local art scene,” partaking in things like photography exhibitions, book readings, figure drawing nights, and other activities that my friends and I are always asking ourselves “why don’t we ever do this?”

​

​On our first night hanging without the gang she took me to this hidden warehouse owned by a friend of hers.

​

We entered through a large black metal sliding gate. The lights were bright and cold. An almost naked man was playing the bongos on top of some ethereal music but it was mostly drowned out by the whispering of the crowd that echoed on the aluminum ceiling. We walked around arm in arm. There were large grayscale pictures displayed against the exposed cement block walls. A circle of people were painting on the polished cement floor; their finished paintings hanging on the walls. She didn’t make any comment about the art so I stayed quiet as well, which was comforting because I didn’t want to have to lie about liking any of it.

 

We walked into a little room filled with yellow sticky notes that hung from the ceiling by a thin paper thread. Each sticky note had a different poem written in pencil. I read a bunch of them. I felt bad about not feeling anything. Maybe I lack the sensibility to appreciate art. But that can’t be, because I remember that time when a Van Gogh painting brought a tear to my eye. Maybe this was bad art. 

 

My facial expression must have revealed my thoughts because she turned towards me and, in a snarky tone, asked: “what, you don’t like poetry?”

 

“I like poetry; I just don’t like any poem,” I said. 

 

She laughed. “Here or ever?”

 

“Ever,” I said. “But I want to.”

 

“Remind me to show you something later,” she said. 

 

I was glad to hear her say there would be a “later.” 

 

“And how about the rest of it?” she asked. 

 

“I mean…” I didn’t know how to finish that phrase. 

 

She came close to my ear. “I think it sucks,” she said. 

 

I laughed with my eyes closed. “You don’t know how relieved I am right now; I just want to kiss you,” I said.

 

“I’m not stopping you,” she said and hugged me by the waist. 

 

After a kiss that may have made some people uncomfortable we stood in front of each other holding hands. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You really think it sucks?”

 

“Well, sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, but it’s always fun,” she said. She pointed at a large table at the back. “And there’s always free wine.”

 

During the course of the night Maria made me rethink the way I looked at the whole thing. So what if your art isn’t great? It’s no reason not to do it. I thought about the stash of unfinished songs I had in my drawer. It’s easy to criticize, it’s hard to create. “I gotta dust those off,” I thought.

 

“Should we text the other two, see what they’re up to?” she said. 

“Sure, if you want to,” I said. 

​