My Friend's Friend

"My friend likes you." Words from my best friend meant to incite a reaction. For months, Kitty tried to tell me that her friend from home, Norway, is interested in me. But, what did it matter if he lived 5000 miles away? It didn't. I never thought about him. Never cared about my friend's friend.

That is, until Kitty told me that we would be in the same city for 2 weeks. It had been months since I had been any kind of intimate with any kind of body. So, I figured, why not? I deserve a summer romance, especially with a foreign man. It is only natural that the following questions bombarded Kitty: "What's his name? What does he look like? And most importantly, is he tall?" Kitty proceeded to show me his pictures and I was pleased. She told him that I would be in Rio de Janeiro, too.

When I got to Brazil, I was on constant look-out for him. I figured it would be easy. A man who stands at 6'7, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes couldn't be so hard to find, could it? But it was. After 3 days, he told Kitty that he saw me, but didn't say anything. Kitty berated him, of course. The next day, the day that I chose to look like a tom-boy, a man approached me with a timid look on his face. He barely said anything before I screamed his name, "Martin!" I got up from my table and invited him to sit with me and friends that I forgot were sitting with me.

Thankfully, they ate and they left. Martin and I, we sat and talked until time became a non-factor. I smiled the entire time, but we failed to make eye contact. Not because I didn't try but because he was shy. Though we could barely exchange gazes, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

For the next week and a half, we spent most of our time together. Something unusual happened each time I was in his company; I fell asleep. He didn't bore me, and I wasn't particularly tired, but I fell asleep in his lap everyday. It was confounding. What the hell was going on? The best answer I could come up with was that he felt like home. I'd known him for a little over a week, and his arms felt like the safest place to be. Thankfully, Martin wasn't bothered my drowsiness. I know this because each time I'd wake up to him caressing my face and smiling at me.

There was just one thing: he wouldn't kiss me. He didn't try. And I wouldn't dare make the move. I knew he wanted to, I could sense it when he looked at me. I would feel his desire each time we said our good nights. While he could quell his desire to kiss me, I couldn't quell my desire for his kiss. So, I asked him, "You don't want to kiss me?" He got tense and somewhat pensive. "Yes, Diane, I want to kiss you. Haven't stopped thinking about it. But my girlfriend..."

I interrupted him, "Your girlfriend? I thought you guys broke up."

He confessed that he made an attempt to break up with her, but he's not sure that it stuck. Martin claimed that he was not in love with her and has been "trying" to break up with her for a while, but has been failing to do so.

I'd decided that we would try to be just friends. Our time together was fleeting and I was just looking to enjoy his company. I tried to convince myself of that. I quelled my desire for Martin. But that foolishness didn't last. Everyone who has ever taken an interest in anyone knows that the "let's just be friends" plan never actually works.

I kissed him. I kissed him. And I kissed him. It was hard. It was sweet and it was deep. I tried not to care about his girlfriend because I was just trying to have fun in a foreign city with a foreign man. What did it matter?

Our time in Brazil passed. I went back to Florida and he to Norway. We were back to telling ourself the lie that we're just friends. And it worked for a while. Until Martin told me that he was going to see his girlfriend to end their relationship. I didn't ask him to break up with her, I didn't pressure him. I even avoided talking about her. He wanted to break up with her because he wanted a relationship with me. I was terrified. I worried that he might not have the strength to go through with it and that that would hurt.

Hours went by. He messaged me eventually and with his tone, I knew that it was over. His tone signified the end of his relationship with me. He did not choose me. And as hurt as I was, I completely understood. Why choose the woman across the Atlantic, when he had a perfectly good Norwegian woman right there with him?

Or at least, that's how I've justified my heartbreak.