Friends with Boundaries

I have a close married friend who was also my co-worker.  When we go out together, people might think we’re together-TOGETHER, but of course we’re not, since we respect the obvious boundary:  He knows he’s married, and I know he’s married.  Maybe it’s because of that dynamic that we have such an honest and comfortable friendship.  He’s a fanatic about sports, like I am, most of all football—soccer to him, American grid-iron for me, and mutually, tennis.

Culturally there is also a familiarity.  Spain was the colonizer of our native birthplaces—the Philippines for me, South America for him.  And we also love food and traveling.  I have spent some of the most memorable times with him, for instance, following up the theater and a late-night supper with drinks at the Marriott’s “The View” room overlooking Market Street with the Bay Bridge in the distance.  Our exes, well, really his, occupied most of our conversation.

The last time I saw him was when he took me out for my birthday to a tapas place this year.  The original plan was oysters and wine at the local village wine bar, but when we started perusing through a tapas cookbook in my apartment, it was a no-brainer.  This time around we discussed his football and travel stories while he was in his teens, and he gave me a story idea.

A friend once told me she could not imagine a platonic relationship with anyone whom she was attracted to, married or otherwise.  I guess a part of me believes in living dangerously, or quite frankly I enjoy our friendship more than desiring to even go there.