Long ago Yasmin and Carlotta met in London. One was accompanying a boyfriend who was an actor, up and coming, though he had started to get the feeling that he had come as far up as he ever would. The other had been transferred by her company, had been gazumped on her first apartment, was looking for a place to stay until the second one was all ironed out. Each had a reason to drink. Both were drinking. The pub had a name that they would argue about for years. “It was The Prospect,” one would say. “No,” the other would object. “It was The Prospect of something.” Then one would go into the pocket for a card, pretending that might solve things. It was never a full dispute, more a question of amendment. That was the nature of their entire relationship, which started that first night when one sloshed near the other. Alcohol may have accelerated the first kiss but it didn’t determine which road was taken. Lust did that, and lunacy, and the invisible intelligence of love. The actor was let down gently. The company was not informed. Yasmin and Carlotta were largely inseparable from that first night, making love, making time, opening and closing doors in times both playful and disconsolate, working hard, cooking meals, traveling one summer to Cairo, visiting Yasmin’s parents briefly, riding motorcycles there, after which, lying flat on backs on their hotel floor in full view of the wind-reddened sky, sand brought up from the Sahara and dispersed through the air, optic fire in flight, one put her hand on the other one’s shoulder and breathed out just as the other breathed in. They were totally sober but far more gone than they had been that first night.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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