Friendship vs. Romance

She stands at the bar in a crowded, dimly lit room. Music plays and the smell of smoke, perfume, and a hint of sweat fills the air. He enters, sees her at the bar, she hasn't noticed him yet, but a couple seconds later senses his eyes on her. She looks up, smiles, looks away, then looks back and smiles again, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly.

He buries his fear deep inside himself and covers it over with the armor of confidence, smiles back, and closes the distance between them. He sees her face, her smile, her clothes, and the body underneath, and swears he's in love. He buys her a drink, they talk for a few minutes, trying to hear each other over the sound of the local band playing cover songs, and he asks her to dance. They move out onto the dance floor, leaving their drinks behind, and stand close to each other, moving, smelling each other's cologne, feeling the heat from each others' body. No words are needed, no words are possible. Their bodies speak a language all its own and they listen. A couple more rounds of drinks, more music, more dancing, and then a walk out into the fresh, cool air of the night.

The stars are out, there's a warm glow from the drinks and the dancing, and he pulls her close. They kiss, soft at first, and then deeper, longer, more passionately. The heat turns into fire, and it's a brief negotiation, his house or hers. Hers is closer, so they climb the stairs before slamming the door behind them and undressing each other in the dark. Three hours ago they didn't know each other existed, let alone saw each other's bodies in intimate detail, but they're following what comes naturally.

Tomorrow they may be strangers again, or if they're lucky they'll have breakfast, and coffee, and lunch, and then another night, and he'll bring her into his world and she'll bring him to meet her friends. One month later they're doing laundry together. Six months later they're buying fine china. Two years later they wonder what they ever had in common, but for now, this is love. This is what it looks like, what it feels like. This is how relationships go.


Another man, another woman. They talk on the phone, make dinner together, play basketball, send each other birthday gifts. They're friends, and have been for years. He cares about her. She cares about him. They spend hours talking, hours and hours. He knows her family's names, she knows the name of every pet he's ever owned. The night she came home stunned after the death of her friend he was there, holding her. The day his dad died and he felt numb she listened, understanding.

She says it doesn't feel right. It isn't love, because it doesn't look like love should look. It's not perfume and dancing and drinks and smoky bars, and instant, uncontrollable heat. The fire burns, but burns low, a steady flame but not consuming. He tells her there's plenty of kindling he's been saving up that she doesn't know about. He's been storing it away, waiting for the day when the flint strikes and the fire of straw, newspaper and twigs becomes a roaring flame of trees and houses and countrysides. But she warms her hands instead, and throws on another piece of kindling.