We were never at the same place, at the exact time in seventeen years. I bet there’s more than six degrees of separation between us. We simply are from utterly distinct worlds. And I could be walking on Madison Avenue, towards east, and he could be walking in the opposite direction. I could have taken a glance at him for two or three seconds, as I walk, and then vanish from each other’s lives: like strangers.

There’s no other way to put it, in fact, we were strangers. My friend, Jane, an ebullient and—I guess—pragmatic person, decided that it was a practical idea that we mix into what she described as, “a barbarian,” party. A party where virtually all the guests are from, “the elite,” Jane said. I responded befuddled, “what is that supposed to mean?” Jane stares back at me with a shred of mischief in her smile and her eyes invaded with malice altogether.

Ever since I met Jane, she has been like the elder sister I never had the chance to have; disregarding that her ancestry traces back to Greece and Germany, while mine is a combination: Spanish, Mestizo and Jewish. Anyway, we’re inseparable.
Amidst the cacophony of the savage celebration, it turns out that Jane and I were indeed separable. The last time I saw her during that night she was tipsy and swirling around the house as she flirted with each single man she encountered along her way. I was solo now like a poisonous toadstool; feeling the exasperating desire to abandon, what I thought was a tedium party.

Nevertheless, could I leave Jane here by herself? I decided it was for the best to seek her among the commotion. I scrutinized the entire room and, as if by the grace of a miracle, found her at a corner bickering with some fellas who I didn’t recognize by their faces. As I stepped closer to this group of people, which included Jane, I thought, “She’s so idiosyncratic. I can’t think of one single reason why she brought me here tonight.” Then I thought, as I approached her, “What the devil am I going to say to her?”

“Jane? We should probably leave… [hesitating my words] it’s starting to get late, you know?” I said warily. Then adding, “Remember I told your parents I would take you safe back home,” I said as I began to lose my patience. “You areee… righttt,” uttered Jane undoubtedly with more than a drink over her head. Irked by Jane’s condition, I grabbed Jane with my left hand around her waist, and I placed her right arm around my neck to drive her out of that madhouse. “And you call yourself, ‘pragmatic’?” I said with a snarky humoristic tone.

In the attempt to conquer the difficult challenge of going down the steps with my drunkard friend—who couldn’t even recall her name— a young man appeared out of nowhere.

He had a rather heavy Boston accent, was slim, with blonde hair, red cheeks (very European looking, I sensed), and casually, but elegantly, dressed. “I can take you both home,” he said to us. I was stupefied; consequently it took me certain time to land back on Earth. “To Queens?” I said as I struggled to hold Jane. “Let him take us! He wants a piece of me,” Jane said under the influence of alcohol. Neglecting Jane, he responded amicably, “Yes, to Queens.” “Well… [Undecided] I will appreciate it enormously,” I said yielding.

Silenced reigned in the car as we drove from the Upper East Side to Queens. “She’s finally turned off,” he commented wittily. We both chuckled and from then chatted briefly. He had a name: Adam Steffensen. Occasionally, Adam asked me how long I’ve been dating Jane. “We aren’t dating. We tried once, but I realized I’m too gay, and we became fond friends,” I responded. “You were in Jane’s group at the party?” I asked. Adam: “Yes, I was.” After delivering Jane home, I thanked Adam for the ride and said farewell. He abruptly asked me why I didn’t accept his offer of taking me home too. I explained that I lived close and the trouble would be unnecessary.

I lied a little dispirited. I didn’t want Adam to see where I lived. I preferred that we didn’t see each other again. The following morning, Jane called me and told me that the enigmatic guy, the “designated driver,” as Jane called him, the one from last night, asked for my Facebook. I was speechless; and questioned how Jane remembered Adam if she was so out of orbit last night?
The months and seasons commenced to pass, I came to the realization that Mr. Steffensen (aka. Adam) was interested in me, and not in my friend Jane, as I first thought. At first, I thought of him as a smug, who everything he said, I thought as, dogmatic. Notwithstanding, I later found him intrinsically frisky, his charm and sense of humor matched perfectly with my philosophy of glancing at life itself.

I was never able to sustain a serious relationship before. All the men, before Adam, were concerned about one single: knowing what’s behind my sheets (if you know what I mean).
One day, after five months in a relationship with Adam, he waited for me at the front entrance of my high school, waving his hand aloft implying, “I am here!” Once in the car, he explained why he had come to see me on an unusual Tuesday afternoon.

“I have come out to my parents,” Adam said sheepishly.

Believe it or not I was unfazed, because it meant that he loved me. During that instant my mind regressed back in time, Adam once confessed me that he wouldn’t reveal to his parents about his sexuality if he hadn’t found the ideal person to love. 

The blustery street, where Adam parked the car, felt like a solitary desert, except that it was as cold as the Arctic. After a brief moment of not looking at each other’s faces, I turned to him and said, “So, what’s the next step?” I asked attempting to break the ice again.

Adam looked at me straight in the eyes, “They want to meet you,” he said.

That’s when my heartbeat became rapid. Adam told me that I was invited to have dinner with him and his parents.

I asked him if they were okay with us. “Let’s put it this way, my mother is Danish, and she comes from a very liberal family. When have you heard of homosexuality not being accepted virtually thoroughly in Europe? Especially the Scandinavian utopia,” Adam responded rather proudly, with nobility though, of his Nordic roots.

“I guess you have a point,” I said.

“Wait! Does your mother believe in elves?” I asked.

Adam could not contain his laughter out of my ignorance. “No love. The Icelanders believe in elves, not Danish. My mom is Lutheran,” responded Adam.

“Oh! I’m allowing stereotypes to take entirely over this conversation,” I said, avoiding, fruitlessly, of demonstrating my embarrassment.

“What about your father?” I asked.

“You’ll get to know him on Friday,” Adam responded.

Friday arrived, and I felt apprehensive. The doors opened, leading to the dining room at the Steffensen’s house in the Upper East Side, and right there were the parents waiting for us to arrive as they stood beside the imposing dining table.

“Hello, darling. I’m so glad to meet you,” said Ms. Steffensen as she embraced me quite strongly, I must declare.

“The pleasure it’s all mine,” I said economizing my words.

“Good evening, young man. I’m Adam’s father and the only worrying about his future tonight,” said Mr. Steffensen bluntly as we shared a handshake.

As we sat around the dining table, I recalled what Adam had told me in preparation for this uncomfortable, nerve-raking and almost unbearable night. That under no circumstance should I boast about any of my accomplishments.

I indeed was perplexed by this, “Why?” I asked.

Adam explained me that his mother was still a little too Danish to be living in America. She still believed the Law of Jante was part of the American society.

“The what?” I asked Adam in vexed tone.

“Basically, it’s seen in a negative way that an individual speaks about his/her achievements or successes.”

“And your mother hates that people do that?” I asked.

“’Hates’ it? She loathes it. She can’t abide it,” Adam said in his noticeable Boston accent.

O.K. Anything else I should know? I asked.

“Hygge: Insists on avoiding any possible controversial topics of conversation,” said Adam.

“What a sensational night it promises to be,” I said snidely.

At the dining table, Ms. Steffensen was in front of me surveying me from head to toes, “Dear, where are you from exactly? She asked me.

“Well, I was born in Colombia, but brought very young to this country,” I said.

“You have papers, right?” Mr. Steffensen asked shamelessly.

Longing to steer the conversation somewhere else, I said, “I do.”

From here Mr. Steffensen leaded the conversation, painting Ms. Steffensen on the wall.

As we began to eat, Mr. Steffensen asked, “What exactly do your parents do?”

I said defiantly, “My mother is a housekeeper, and my father is a waiter.”

“Have you thought about what to do with your life?” Mr. Steffensen asked.

“No, however with my GPA, SAT’s and résumé I’m sure I’ll enter into fine institutions to study whatever I please,” I said sharply.

I glimpsed Adam’s look as if, “Remember the Law of Jante?”

Then Mr. Steffensen said that he is expecting his son to become a brilliant lawyer, just like himself, and this isn’t the reputation he expects for his son.

“Dad, if I shall be remembered it won’t be as a gay lawyer, it’ll be as a lawyer that happened to be gay,” Adam said furiously.

Nonetheless, after his treacherous behavior throughout the night he finally removed off his mask. “Son, you two contrasts in plenty of ways and that’s precisely what your grandfather said about me marrying his Danish daughter. He also said, ‘Love is love, no matter where it comes from,’” said Mr. Steffensen.