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Aristotle Never Did This

By J. David

It was one of those days. I was at work, near the corner of Page and Laguna, breaking the edges of a door, and it was lunch time, so I cruised to my lover's apartment in Hayes Valley. She was just waking up, agreed anyway to accompany me for lunch. Inside Moishe's Pippic, with sandwiches, the man at the register is singing as a couple walks by. She is beautiful; it is evident her airs, beyond the pleasing objects of a receptivity, are for him a mortal desire.

We had been, the night before, at Theater Artaud, a former industrial space turned performance venue between the Mission and Potrero Hill. Jose Navarette and friends, along with Tango #9, presented 2 Tangos and a Kiss. Perhaps it was the $6 bottle of merlot, perhaps the effect of night or my passionate companion (whose idea it was to come), but more likely it was these dancers--at one point I could have cried. There was an especially touching tango between Navarette and Arnel Santiago Alcordo, a trio of women called "the hidden kiss," and a second-act dance theater piece. The musicians played piano, trombone, violin and bandoneon to the works of Piazzolla and Alejandro Oyuela. Their intimacies were inspiring.

Our lunch is spattered with exchanges; we share an average piece of tiramisu and return to her place. We have some hazelnut coffee, and before I know it, light streaming in her windows, above the trees of Hayes Street, there in the afternoon ... I was back at work.

I was in the middle of staining the door (with golden oak) when she stopped by. She sat reading the paper on the stoop as I cleaned up. The sky was clear; we rode through the Mission to Bernal Hill, then to Cafe Macondo. We sipped some tea on that long bench by the register as people from the neighborhood came and went. We crossed the street to Adobe Books before returning to the sidewalk in front of her apartment. We agreed to part and meet later at Momi Toby's Revolution Cafe and Art Bar.

Refreshed, we sat off to the side, at her favorite spot. We joked with the people passing by. At one point, there is a slight inconvenience, and for a minute we are sad. But also brave; we have the best spot in the place and full glasses of a beaujolais nouveau. We can be seen ignoring anything related to proper etiquette.

We head to Ali Baba's on Valencia Street, where we dine in the cave on various shawerma and maza. The place is eventually empty, which we enjoy. I have some espresso, and we go to meet friends at Amnesia. There are two men on stage, one on guitar and the other on keyboards and drums. Their sound is far, far out, I can't say pleasing. We are all drinking. "It is our responsibility," one friend says, "to acknowledge our developing powers." He is strong; so is the woman he's come with, who sits back, taking in the place.

There are measurements evident in her suggestions, something about taking chances. They are recently back from demonstrations in Seattle. My lover, who is Argentine, looks bored, and I am tired, so we leave. She slipped away around 4am in a hard falling rain.

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From the January 3, 2000 issue of the Metropolitan.

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