Pita was over for the weekend. He had a competition in the city, in both Standard and Latin, and needed a place to crash. He tells me that he’s at the point where he’s stuck between achieving a higher level and prioritizing the sport as a recreation, especially after coming back empty-handed this weekend when he won two golds at the last competition. 25 is getting old for a competitive dancer, and his instructor, who’s the same age as him, is already the Canadian champion.
I have an interesting relationship with Pita. He was the first person I met when I moved to this city, sharing a room on the 15th floor of a residency. Similar interests and intellects meant that we got along much better than the other pairs of frosh roommates, most of whom got stuck with the crazy, the irrational, and the disgusting. We went separate ways the next year, but moved into an apartment together for the following two years. After parting ways as roommates, when he moved 12000 kilometres to the place he was born, before coming back to this country, we didn’t speak to each other for more than eighteen months.
Now, whenever I see him, whenever he’s in town visiting old friends or participating in competitions, we can greet each other without formalities and just pick up where we left off. It’s on odd state between acquaintance and friendship. We share ourselves, and what we’ve learned and how we’ve changed since last seeing each other, but never keep in touch otherwise. We also give each other perspective. He often speaks as if he’s asking for advice or guidance, without actually asking. I offer my point of view, which he always interprets in a different way than intended, and this keeps me on my toes.
