Cilantro

The taste of cilantro equals guilt.
Even the smell of it makes me feel sick.

I'd never had cilantro before your wife put it into the salad she served that night. Everything else about that night, even down to the stolen kiss in the kitchen - been there, done that. But I'd never had a wife catch me kissing her husband. And having her then tell my husband, well you get the picture. Guilt.

Somehow we all got past the scene. We stayed friends, or at least my husband, you and I did. Your wife did not come to your performances and we never again came to your house for dinner. I drove by that house a few months ago. It was inspiration for my very first entry. But my main memory of that house is not the night we ate cilantro, it's the night you and I... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Your musical comedy group was a local favorite. My husband and I were musicians then. It was more of a hobby for us, but we went out every week to drink and enjoy music and comedy and everything else the bay area in the 70's had to offer.

We made friends with all the guys in your group, but we were closest to you. And you and I? We had something else going on. Denial was our game. We were loosing. That night, before the kiss in kitchen, you were playing songs on your piano and singing. I sang along with you - a harmony you'd never considered. You asked if I would get up on stage and sing it the next time I was in the audience. Duh.

Your group was girl bait. Dozens would pack themselves into the front rows just to be close to you. You were the main writer for the group and even through you did not sing that love song in performances, everyone knew it was your song. Sad and sweet. The only non-humor song in your set. The night I sang it for the first time was heaven. I was the only girl who ever sang with your group. The front row girls wanted to hate me, but I was them when I sang. I belted how it felt to be near you. It was electric.

I was invited up to sing that song every performance after that. I never tired of it. But the denial game was getting harder and harder to play. I found myself standing close to you near my car at the end of a night, heart pounding, body weak. It started with touch. A spark flew between us when our skin met. We even looked alike with our thin, heart-shaped faces and sharp noses. The day I cut my long curls off, I walked into the club to find you'd just cut your long curls off as well. Secret smiles. Longing looks. We were smitten. Well, I'll admit I was.

When your group recorded it's first album, my husband was your recording engineer. I was the artist who did your album. I traveled with your band by car up to Santa Rosa for the photo shoot. We sat so close, and you held my hand. It was so much more to me than flirting. It felt bigger. It felt like fate.

When my husband and I broke up, it was not over you. He knew you and I were close, but he while he was ok with it, your wife was not. You and I had done nothing more than steal a kiss or too, but she, unlike my husband, she could see the depths of emotion behind it.

There were other men in my life by then and unlike you, I was newly separated and free. When she called suggesting we get together, I was open to becoming friends with her. I cared enough for you to want you to be happy. Maybe my becoming friends with her, I could let go of the huge crush I had on you. When she showed up at my door, her agenda was not to be friends. We were at war. I was to stay away from you. It seems when you traveled with the band, you were allowed to sleep with anyone girl you met on the road. You were allowed this as long as you never kept in contact with them or slept with the same girl twice. Her story was bizarre, but it was clear I was a threat to the balance that kept you two together.

I felt ambushed. And her words had the opposite effect from her intention. Game on.

Months passed, and I found myself at a fourth of July party a bit out of control. Drugs of the day were pot and cocaine. The later was new to me. I was buzzed when I came home to find your message on my machine. "Deb, I am home alone and want to see you. Will you come over?" Duh

You, my friend, were wasted. The bottle on the piano was almost empty and your words were coming out sideways. But this was a moment I'd dreamed of. I was alone with you. I'm not sure I'd call what we had "sex." It wasn't really possible with the two directions we found ourselves in. At the time, it was all a delightful turn of events. It brought me to the place where I knew in my heart I wanted you as a friend and not a lover.

I gathered my things and was headed out the door when you said,"I had sex with you, so now I can never talk to you again."

I laughed it off. I thought it was the booze talking. I was in the audience at your next performance, but when the love song was played I was not invited to come on stage. Not only would you not acknowledge my existence, but the entire band seemed to look right through me. Maybe your wife's words had been a warning for me.

My (ex)husband became a regular guest performer with your band. He got to be the friend I had wanted to be until you moved away. Has it really been 26 years? When I drove past your house, it felt like I'd been there the night before.

I could still taste the cilantro.