I imagine a Friday with Frida would have been a lot like her paintings; full of color and truth and self examination.
I imagine a grey and quiet Friday morning with Frida where we’d take turns talking about death and our inevitable turn to meet it, all while smoking a cigarette. One foot here on this plane, but the other somewhere else. Always somewhere else.
I imagine sipping coffee, then wine, then tequila- and laughing at our hurt. Not because we’re cynical or drunk but because laughter makes the hurt- hurt less.
I am a romantic, like Frida once was, but don’t you dare call us hopeless. We prefer hopeful, frank, and expressive.
Naive? Perhaps, but rather sensible in our naiveté don’t you think?
Leaping before we look, we paint our wings where we have none.
I imagine Frida telling me what she thought of the men who had found me too brusque for their submissive taste.
I imagine her scoffing at their empty-headedness.
She would say,
“Yes, we too have masculine energy.
We too like to drink, to smoke, to curse and kiss women.
I imagine a Friday with Frida would have been a lot like this one.
Sipping coffee while dreaming of worlds that are ours and ours alone.
One in our aloneness, but solitary on our definitive quest for solitude.
As we would hug and kiss goodbye, I would whisper in her ear,
“I am alone but I like who I am with”.
And she would smile because she knew that feeling all too well.