A fabulous picture of Jim,
who celebrates a birthday today.
Credit: Ruth Schneider,
photographer and good friend
Our first time alone together was on the phone. It had never been just you and me.
I was at the beach in Rockport and you were in your Chelsea apartment eating toast. Hurrah for the cell phone. We planned the call after you sent an email on December 2, 2005, that said, “I want to talk.” I thought, “Oh how sexy is that?” Two days later, December 4, we talked. It was, as you well know, unseasonably warm.
Before I forget the obvious: Lots has happened since. Lots has changed.
What has not?
Try this exercise: Say anything. Go ahead. Say it’s raining. Say you are running out to put quarters in the meter. Say my vegetable soup is fuckin’ delicious. I look at you and think, “How sexy is that?” You talk. I like.
I credit your 67th birthday with our love affair. It’s the anniversary of your birth, yes, but also of ours. For as long as we are a “we,” I will love your birthday. Cake! A martini!
So sad that I’m in Rockport and you are in Chelsea. What’s a martini without Jim? You know the answer. I abstain.
2010. Five fast years hence. I knew it would be like this, speedy and fun and a little daunting with all the changes.
2010, where “new” is supplanted by “cherish.” Where the sound of your voice lives in me like a second heartbeat. Where “voice” continues to be the glue. Where, when I hear your tired voice on the phone saying “sleep well” late at night, I hear your sexy bed voice.
December 2. Happy Birthday. Happy Anniversary. Happy. For as long as we are.