I have a friend who I don’t see all that often. When we do connect though, like yesterday, it’s fantastic. We sit over a bottle of wine, talk about everything, we laugh, we argue, we have fun.
We’re good when we’re together.
But we’re also completely different.
He’s a vegetarian whereas I love meat. He supports Palestine, I err towards the side of Israel. He thinks the ANC are marvellous, I think they’re a bunch of cunts.
He likes anal; I am still undecided.
Our conversations can be heated and difficult but in a good way.
Yesterday we were talking about why we don’t connect all that often.
Wouldn’t it be cool to have a Sunday lunch together, I asked.
I have this romantic idea about Sunday lunches. I love the idea of a long table under the trees, an Indian tablecloth, white crockery, lots of red wine, kids, dogs, fresh veggies, a roast, pretty flowers, maybe someone playing the violin at the bottom of the garden…
He looked at me as if I was mad at the very thought.
I tried to explain myself.
Sundays are when friends come together, I said. It’s not just the traditional Sunday thing that I like, but it’s about the sharing. Passing the salad and sharing wine is like love. It’s showing appreciation, it’s about community, connection, friendship...
He just stared at me.
And so I got excited.
It’s about comfort for god’s sake, Sunday lunch is about comfort. COMFORT!
I may have been yelling.
And he glazed over completely.
This man does not like anything comfortable. He’s mostly unsociable, a loner and a bit of a hermit.
Also, he has a dark side.
Sunday lunches don’t fit in that well with dark sides.
And that’s the difference between him and I.
I can be dark but not all the time.
I still want Sunday lunches.
I like them.
And I quite like the idea of comfort.