Bola de Espejos

Written by Leandro Fogliatti 

Translated by Esteban Rico 

A white daisy over a pink background. Art deco? No. It’s the index fingernail of this fancy gym’s receptionist, pointing to an error on my sign-up form.  “35 years old”, she tells me.  “That’s correct, today’s my Birthday”, I say to her.  “Then you have to check this other box, sir; the ‘35 to 40’ one”.  And, waiting for my comeback, she takes the time to blow a Bubble Gum bubble that smells of tutti-frutti. Mental picture: during her next visit to the dentist, a dental drill grazes through her tender molar nerve over and over again, trying to eliminate a giant cavity, caused by that piece of sugar that she so annoyingly chews.  I say nothing.  I simply grab the form and sit down to revise it. 

Name: Leandro Fogliatti.  Age: I think that’s pretty clear already.  Sex: unpredictably occasional.  Occupation: writer.  Marital status: …and that’s where I stop myself.  I’ve never been embarrassed about being single.  Quite the contrary.  I’ve enjoyed it very much.  I notice that I’m starting to use the past tense, though…It’s just that for some time now, something feels different. So, when this gum-chewing bureaucrat rubs it in my face, suddenly I’m ashamed. What is it about being single that’s starting to bother me?  What’s the big problem? In a big city like Buenos Aires, who cares about people’s marital status? 

Once on the street, I run into this couple of friends. “Happy Birthday, Lean!” Fernando and Scott had met over the internet many years ago.  Apparently, Cupid’s arrow took such aim at them that, as soon as he could, Scotty said goodbye to sunny California and relocated in Buenos Aires, citizenship and all.  He’s now the administrator of a receptive tourism agency and he knows more about this city than the average porteño. It was right then and there that, seeing how good they looked together, I faced the truth. The problem was not the receptionist at the gym. The problem (big breakthrough!) was me. It doesn’t bother me to be single. It’s being alone that sucks!

When I got back to my apartment, I asked my roommate, Gabriel if he was going through the same thing. “Get used to it”, he answered me.  “If you’re gay, you’re a loner. In other words, do you know any fag who’s willing to sacrifice their freedom over a serious relationship?” he said while returning his attention to Kylie’s Showgirl DVD.  Could he be right?  Is it true that we gay men are incapable of committing to a serious relationship?  Were Fer and Scotty the exception to the rule? 

Celebrating your Birthday is a good plan when you’re feeling lonely.  That is why I gathered a group of friends and invited them to PACHA BUENOS AIRES, one of the many gay-friendly places in this city.  Among my friends there was Gabriel, of course, and also Fer and Scotty, who took advantage of the situation to give out the invitations to their upcoming (surprise, surprise!) civil union.  I have to be honest, I don’t know what bothered me the most; the fact that they used my event to invite us to theirs, or that they were getting united. 

Either way, I thought the timing was perfect to begin my “come out and play” ritual. I approached the bar, ordered a Frozen Margarita and went out to the club’s terrace to breathe some of the fresh air coming from the riverside.  There I was, alone with my Margarita, thinking that it’s not that bad to be alone, when I saw his smile for the first time. “You spilled some of that drink on your shirt”, he said as he got closer. It was true. Clearly my nerves have gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.  OUCH!  Alternating his attention between the Margarita stain and my astonished eyes, he pulled out a white handkerchief and started pressing on my shirt to soak up the spilled Margarita. Once, twice…I don’t know how many times he ran his hand across my stomach! Suddenly, a blond chick with incredibly bad timing appeared on the terrace calling out for him; “Nacho, can we go now?” He looked at me, smiled and left me standing there with my silhouette against the moonlight, listening to the sound of the river, smiling like an idiot and holding his handkerchief under my nose.  Maybe 35 is not such a lonely number after all.