It is a good day, Cal.
I expected the winter of Buenos Aires would be colder and windier than this. But this city rather enjoys the sun skydiving right through her air. Quite warm and friendly she has become, but I’m mostly staying inside. Yes, I know of being disrespectful. Maybe because of this disrespect, she sometimes takes off her spot. The street becomes empty, cars rarely pass by. Windows that are closed down protect the light from escaping to her. With such population she brags, I end up feeling solitude in her existance. But I stay in, in my bed, under my roof, for I haven’t care much of her that you deeply are proud of.
But this city is known not for the solitude, for she has a endless list of upcoming cultural and queer events. She is known for the rage, as once a singer sang it out loud. It’s a certain misfortune that she has become such notorious. I haven’t learnt how to express my anger, so none of my anger has built her ill-fame. To be frank, I’m quite sad for the misunderstanding as seen by my perspective. No conversation has occurred between us, maybe because there might stay a possibility to fuel up the rage of the moment, or because an artificial solitude is satisfactorily put to confirm the firmness of the relationship. Who knows? I’m too naive to know such things. Maybe others not.
Cal, I wouldn’t defend myself, for that means directly I need to blame others, which I don’t want it to be happening. Surely it’s my fault and I want to send you my deep apologies. If I may, I would excuse with alcohol consumption that led me to the situation. I don’t remember much of what happened, as I barely do when I’m intoxicated. I remember two things, and one of them is how I safely got home. I took a taxi but I realized that I was short of money. I got out of the cab at the Corriente avenue then walked. While walking I sent voice messages to my house-mates that I was short of cash that I obligated myself walking alone back home. They bullied me the next day saying the voice messages I had sent them were funny enough to giggle.
I, too, giggled about it for a long time, up until Ian told me at a brunch we were taking at Palermo Soho the other day, that you were upset. Ian was like, Jeremy, Cal is upset with you. Then I responded, Why? Did I do something wrong? Then Ian replied, For the night you went to the Thom’s party. Yes, Cal, then I recalled the second part of the story as of the reason I assumed that you became furious. I remember it as a game. I don’t know who started it, but we were four participants: Two girls, which I don’t recall their names, and two boys, which were Thom and I. I kissed the girl on my left, then she passed the kiss to another girl on her left, then she to Thom, then Thom to me. After one more round it ended, and yes, you are right. Drunk people do stupid things daily.
But it wasn’t to harm anyone, trust me. Any of that game was significant nor lasting. I even didn’t know that you and Thom were back together because what I was lastly told indicated the contrary. Sure, Ian told me that you two being together again, and there I understood the gravity of this situation. I feel dragged down, feeling too hard to walk on or walk away from all your rage toward me. I am truly sorry for all that cause I have become.
I know how silence suffocates. It is golden when the sun is up high in the air, but it also guarantees the near death when one is under water. Just mentioning about the silence, it breaks its delicacy. I want to be a bit egoistic to break its frailness.
Cal, again, I’m sorry. I hope you write me soon.