Everyone knows someone who falls in love more than changing their underwear – or underwear.

In line at the supermarket, a guy asked his friend to take care of his cart while he went to the refrigerated section to get the yogurt he had forgotten. For you, this may be nothing more than a mere chance, but for her, it’s overwhelming passion, the kind that stave off hunger. On the bus, a girl who was sitting offered to hold the heavy backpack of her friend who was standing up. For you, it’s just a kindness. But for him, it’s a glimpse of a country wedding, of a Labrador running around the house, and of combed children smiling at the breakfast table.

In the lobby of a commercial building, a boy holds the elevator door for his friend to enter. For you, he may just want to avoid an accident, because he works there and knows the complicated “temperament” of that elevator. But for your friend, it’s a declaration of love and the imminent need to come out as gay to your own family.

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Will they react well? What if my dad kicks me out of the house? What if my grandmother has a heart attack? What if my aunt thinks the pastor at her church can ~solve~ this issue? What if we get kicked out of a bar while caressing? And if Bolsonaro assumes the presidency and sanctions the family statute, how are we going to have children? His mind got stuck on the elevator door. But his… oh, his went through the door, went up to the eleventh floor, attended the meeting with the client, returned home, found the target of his passion on happn, struck up a conversation, made an appointment, kissed, had sex, dated, got engaged, married, traveled to Kuala Lumpur on their honeymoon and came back tanned and worried about the 2018 elections. Because he’s like that, it’s no use. He sees possibilities for sex, cuddling, dating, popcorn and Netflix in a simple smile. House at the club, exchange Whatsapp and say good morning, good night and I love you the following week.

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One in every hundred times in the lives of these friends of ours, love finally comes true. Become dating. And there is that outpouring of happiness, that overflow of passion. Not Alexander the Great conquering Babylon, not Nero burning Rome, not England and Prussia defeating Napoleon Bonaparte at Waterloo: never in the history of mankind has anyone shown equal or greater enthusiasm than her friend when she finally got into a serious relationship. with the cute guy from the bread line. Oh, friend, now it’s for real. I’ve never loved so much in my life. It’s a love so big, it doesn’t even fit in here. He is also into philately, spearfishing and eggplant salad. We were made for each other. you can not go wrong.

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But it does. Not that he’s stupid. Not uncompromising. Not disloyal. Not rude. It’s just that he doesn’t have the twinkle in his eye that the supermarket boy did. And he doesn’t speak as softly as the neighbor who helped her with the bags. And he doesn’t have as good a conversation as the bartender at that alternative nightclub. And he wakes up with breath – something that certainly doesn’t happen to that guy who leaves the gym when she arrives. And he insists on leaving the towel wet on the bed – a taunt that the heartthrob of the eleven o’clock soap undoubtedly doesn’t have. And he watches that awfully boring show – sure that college veteran can’t stand these half-baked sci-fi.

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And as much as he was a cross between Brad Pitt and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, he would have flaws that the bakery clerk doesn’t have. Because, for chronic lovers, impossible passions are always more numbing. They steal more air. They have more dramatic potential. Sound better. For the chronically in love, butterflies fall better in the stomach than fruit salt. Than rice and beans in the hour of hunger. Than Epocler on a hangover morning. And even though this all inevitably seems strange to me, I understand. It’s just that, as the popular saying said, the neighbor’s grass is always greener.

Until we stop by to check it out up close…