It seemed that all these questions became obsolete that night in Caracas when the bathtub had been filled and Heather called for me out of the bathroom loud and clear, when I replied by asking her if she was ready to be washed. There was no hiding any longer, nor fear. We dared to be honest once again. It seemed that everybody understood that night that the reason for her calling me was not meant to insult Ross, but to enrich a tiny part in my soul that had remained dormant for a dozen years, and that of everyone else, and so to enrich everyone present as well. Her call was clear and unmistakable, like a protest declaration, an outburst of contempt of all the years of hidden feelings, restrained love, and a civility without honesty.

      I glanced at Ross. Ross just smiled gently.

      Naturally, I answered Heather from the same basis. The answer was clear, unmistakable in what it meant, and accompanied by a smile.

      This protest against the world's phony civility seemed to unfold as if out of nowhere. It unfolded explosively as if a soap bubble had burst, that had been pumped up over time in a denial of the reality at hand. Little did I realize until Ross had pointed this out just days earlier, that I had been responsible for those years of impasse, myself. I had been the chief of the phony civility. She had looked for something higher.

      I realized that I hadn't known any of this that night so long ago when the last of the bath water drained away and the rest of the night lay before us. I felt like a rebel then. I thought I had won a battle over a contemptuous civility that could no longer be tolerated, because love isn't something that one can hide on a shelf and take down when it suites one, with glove on hand so as not to be burned by it. My take had been, that loving is a part of the living of life, life that is designed to be enriched by all that pertains to it, opening the gate ever wider, not to shame, but to the freedom of infinity in which we find our Soul and our riches.

      I was about to find out that I had been blind to those riches that I already had.

      After our renewed bath 'ceremony' was over, Heather invited me to accompany her on a stroll through the city. That invitation was like music to my ears, but what had caused the sudden change in attitude? Had Ross said something? First the bath, now a night of flirting. If I had suggested the same a month ago she wouldn't have talked to me anymore. Now our relationship seemed to have gone back to the way it had been in the beginning. We strolled along traffic congested streets with crowds of people on the sidewalk. We stopped in shops now and then, not to buy anything in particular. We loved the shops for their atmosphere, and for the beautiful people in them.

      "You love beautiful women, right?" said Heather and smiled, as we explored our way through a clothing store.

      "Of course I do," I affirmed, "that's why I love you so much," I said and hugged her.

      "Me, I'm not particularly beautiful," she said, "am I?"

      "To me you are, and always have been," I replied and kissed her again.



      We stopped at a pub at one point, to have a beer. We were told not to drink the local water. But better than the beer, was the music. There was always music everywhere, music for dancing.

      We had dinner later that night in a quaint little hole in the wall restaurant that was open to the sidewalk and to the wonderful Latin music that was being played by a band across the street. The band played in a posh bar and nightclub. Our tiny little restaurant didn't measure up in comparison, but it was perfect for us. It turned out to be an Italian Pizza 'Palace' according to the menu on the table. A Pizza Palace was the last thing we expected to find in Caracas. But so what? Didn't we have also pizza in Vegas? I couldn't remember. It seemed that we had. This time we enjoyed a lovely pizza with wine, and allowed the Latin music from across the street to serenade us. It should have been Italian music, but the Latin is better for dancing.

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Stories about  Love from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche