An interesting thing happened a few days ago; something of which caught me completely by surprise; a thing which I never imagined would happen; a thing which brought with it, dread.

A few nights ago an interesting thing landed in Charlotte; more specifically in my mind. A large writers bLocK dropped squarely between my imagination and inspiration.

I lost my desire to write; I’ve lost my creativity; I’ve lost my need to expose my life to the internet.

But there’s something different about this writer’s bLocK. This writer’s bLocK is causing me to not write about a certain topic.

You see, it’s bLocK-ing my exposing Rodrigo to the internet. Not because he’s asked me to stop writing about him, but because I don’t want to write about him. I don’t want to expose our friendship to anyone; I’m taking this friendship very slowly and very cautiously and very quietly.

I’ve discussed this bLocK with Rodrigo and he understood it completely.

“You don’t have to write about me, Harlan,” he said quietly, then continuing, “But you do have to write. If that means that I’ve become a distraction, then I should leave. Maybe if I leave, you won’t have your writer’s bLocK. That’ll be better for you, won’t it?” he asked.

“Are you kidding, Rodrigo? No,” I exclaimed, “Your leaving will not make things better,” I said. Then continued, “Rodrigo, I can whether this writer’s bLocK; I’ve had them my entire career. And I refuse to accept that your departure would solve anything, except maybe to cause me such longing and heartache that I’ll be inspired to write.

“You and I are still new, Rodrigo; we haven’t had a chance to fight yet; an argument will test the strength of the rope that binds us together. How about if we give ourselves enough time to have an argument. To see where we go, or where we run to, when things aren’t as rosy as they are now. Let’s give us that time together.”

Writer’s bLocK is a time that writer’s encounter during their career. But one associated with a lover is a wholly new distinction. Not wishing to write about the electrifying feeling of infatuation; the exuberant feeling when the doorbell rings; that first kiss as Rodrigo crosses my threshold; or the vision as he peels his t-shirt from his torso exposing a toned chassis.

Maybe this writer’s bLocK is less an obstacle and more a gag order.

It’ll be lifted once we’re past that first argument. Stay tuned.

If you don’t look, you might be surprised by what you see.

I met Rodrigo through friends. We were at a holiday party. Neither of us knew anyone, so we drifted slowly toward each other like an asteroid and a planet, which led to a silent impact of shared and embarrassed “hello’s”.

“How are you?” Rodrigo asked.

“Alone,” I answered sheepishly. “I don’t know anyone at the party.”

“You do now,” Rodrigo said. Continuing he said, “I’m Rodrigo, and you are?”

“I’m Harlan,”I said extending my hand.

Rodrigo’s graceful hand reached out to mine and shook hands, looking square into each other’s eyes.

“Peter said you’re a writer,” Rodrigo added withdrawing his hand.

“Peter? Who’s Peter?” I asked.

“Our host, silly,” Rodrigo laughed. “He’s over there under the mistletoe.”

“Ohhhh, that’s Peter? I asked. “I heard he was a doll! Maybe I should introduce myself to him,” adding quietly, “Under the mistletoe.”

“Don’t bother, Harlan,” he admitted.

“Did you try once?” I asked.

“Yes and it backfired horribly,” Rodrigo confessed.

“He’s straight,” I determined.

“God, no . . . he’s gay through and through,” Rodrigo chortled.

“Then he must’ve not found you attractive,” I surmised.

“God no . . . that was the problem, he found me attractive, but my kissing him under the mistletoe embarrassed him so much that he had a panic attack! Needless to say, we never kissed again.”

But that chance encounter led Rodrigo and I to a lovely dinner date, then a wonderful second date which lasted nine hours and spanned two mealtimes  Rodrigo asks me to read to him on a nightly basis from my blog. He likes my writing, my style, my honesty.

One never knows what may happen after an embarrassing situation, In Rodrigo’s case it cost him some cheek.

And I gained a new amour.

The adage goes: If you love something set it free; if it comes back to you, it’s meant to be.

Vincent and I stopped seeing each other a week before Christmas. It was an abrupt halt; no it was more like a skid on an icy road; that awful sensation that you’re careening out of control no matter what you did; fishtailing, barely missing the guard rail or ditch or other cars.

Once I cleared the black ice of our relationship, I began to forget, i began to not remember the images of Vincent, the sounds of Vincent, his voice, his body, his touch.

I thought I was over him until today.

And there was the lob, the text which came: Your clothes are in the store as am I.

So I went, to pick up my clothes and, I guess, to pick up where we left off.

There was Vincent, standing at the door, that half-crooked smile, waiting for me.

I shopped a bit wishing to lengthen the time I was there.

Why do these things happen to us? Why do people we’ve let go come back like a boomerang? to torture us or to provide a second chance? Why break off something that’s good only to rekindle embers back into a roaring fire.

Is the adage really correct? If you love something set it free; if it comes back to you, it’s meant to be.

Or is that just a coda in relationships?