It was over bowls of tomato-basil soup at a low-key, now defunct restaurant that I inadvertently told Bob myself. As the weeknight rain poured outside, Bob mentioned a film he thought we should see. I heartily recommended Bob's pick, and said Keith and I had really liked it and that he probably would, too. I was off-handed in my remarks and more focused on the soup, my favorite. 

"What do you mean you and Keith liked it?" Bob asked. 

"That we thought it was good. As in, 'not un-good.'"

"Yeah, I got that. What did you mean about you and Keith?" Bob looked at me quizzically, his eyes tinged with hurt. I began to realize he didn't know that Keith and I had been out a few times now.

I proceeded kindly. Bob and I were friends, and we had always treated each other with respect. The last thing I wanted to do was cause him any pain. Then I started wondering, "Why is Bob hurt?" Surely he hadn't attached any emotional content to our singular, disastrous sexual encounter over a year ago. Or had he? 

I discovered the answer, as Bob, the straight-laced engineer of Scandinavian descent, stood up in the middle of the assembled diners and yelled, "Litsa, you're just into cold-hearted fucking!"

Everyone turned to look. "Sit down," I hissed and glared at him. Not only am I one-hundred-percent Greek, but I'm Spartan at that — I'd dealt with emotional outbursts my entire life and gave as good as I got. Bob returned to his chair, but it was clear he was seething. In moments, our relaxed meal had turned into an Edward Albee play. 

"You know, I've been yelled at by my mom and my aunt, who might just be the world's best yellers. So don't think your pathetic Norwegian attempt is going to rattle me." Admittedly, this might not have been the point, but I was mad now, too. No man had talked to me this way and they sure as hell weren't going to start now. More importantly, from my standpoint, I hadn't done anything wrong.

"Listen, I'm sorry if you're hurt," I said. "But are you seriously upset I've gone out with Keith? You and I slept together once and it was a train wreck." Bob flinched. (Still another lesson learned: don't tell a man your sex with him was a "train wreck," even when that constitutes an understatement.) I sighed. "Bob, you know I would never deliberately hurt you. But you and Keith are housemates, for God's sake. I assumed you knew."

"That's just it," he said, more quietly now. "Keith and I are housemates. Couldn't you have gone out with someone else? Did it have to be Keith?"

Oh, okay. Now we were getting somewhere. 

When Bob dropped me off that night, we hugged tentatively and said we'd get together soon. It was a testament to our youth that I think we both meant it but, of course, we never saw each other alone again. Weeks later, he called and asked me to mail him the only copy of a short story he'd written. I didn't do it. Half-hearted reconciliation or not, no one yells at me in public and gets their shit back. 
 

Keith and I soon fizzled out amicably, realizing we had little in common. But it was Bob I ended up missing. We all enter into romance knowing things might get complex. What Keith and I experienced, though, never surpassed mere pleasantness, so the parting was easy. (We, too, remained friendly when we saw each other.) Because Bob and I had been fully clothed during almost all our time together, we talked more. We learned of each other's families and career aspirations and philosophical beliefs, because in addition to movies and authors and mochas, that was our only way to connect. And our burgeoning friendship had ended with hurt feelings on both sides, because I'd slept with his housemate. Strangely, Bob never got mad at Keith; in his mind, I was the only transgressor.

Some friends hold that each other's exes are off-limits, but I can name scads of friends who dated other friends' exes, often with outstanding results. Again, like attracts like, and there's a good chance each of us has a friend who is similar to us, but a better fit for someone we once dated. I know two such couples, in fact, who have been happily married for years. Should they have forgone such fulfillment merely because a compatriot sniffed the bits first? Sting met Trudie Styler, his longtime wife, because she was friends with his first wife. What would our khaki-wearing cohorts listen to today had he not found such bliss? Is it more important to be loyal to your friends or your own potential for love?

As is often the case with love and sex and fair-minded, consenting adults, the answer seems to be, "It depends." None of us wants to be on guard when introducing our partner to our friends. We've all had the quasi-pal who threw themselves at our partner, thereby betraying our trust. But most of us aren't assholes and don't want to hurt anyone. Both romantic and platonic feelings, can run profoundly deep, of course, stirring parts of us we didn't know existed, with unpredictable results. The resulting energy can warm a home or burn it down. 
 

Long ago, I learned far better tricks than pasta sauce and dramedy. As for the larger question: would I go out with Keith again today? Yes, probably. I had no reasonable expectation Bob would care or be hurt. And what if Keith had turned out to be more than a fond anecdote? If we let it, wisdom comes with age. I would discuss things with both men and take it from there.

An unwavering verity I've learned, however, is to keep the black underthings handy. Love and friendship will always be complex, but a few rare elements remain joyfully simple.

Litsa Dremousis is a Seattle-based freelance writer. Her work has appeared in The Believer, Esquire, McSweeney's, the Seattle Weekly and on NPR. She’s currently finishing her first novel. Do yourself a favor and follow her on Twitter.