|MAY 1982. NINE MONTHS ALONG.|
We'll celebrate our 30th anniversary in Spain.
|CHAPS. MORE CIVILIZED DURING SUNDAY AFTERNOON TEA DANCE.|
The moment after I decided I didn't care if I had only minutes before seen him talking to my very recently ex (and only real) "boyfriend" — I was still going to go home with him.
|THE HOUSE ON THE LEFT. "HOLY CRAP. WHAT HAVE I DONE?"|
I suppose we could have started counting one month later — seven months after we first met. The day I gave up my urban-chic, completely renovated top floor in a South End brownstone, and watched the movers squeeze my solid-birch platform bed, Haitian-cotton love seat (purchased half price at Macy's warehouse in NY), miscellaneous antique pieces, along with the boxes of audio cassettes, books, photo albums, dishes, clothing, furniture, and stuff amassed over a 27-year lifetime, into the last bit of remaining space in Jerry's one-bedroom, smaller but urban-chic'er Beacon Hill row-house flat.
|1985. I SHAVED AFTER OUR HOUSEKEEPER, AGNES,|
SAID WE LOOKED LIKE THE SMITH BROS.
But, we didn't start counting then or in another eight months when we decided we couldn't bear the thought of spending one more winter in raw, damp, windy Boston. So quit our jobs, packed our things, and flew west to L.A. to discover that we had become — in addition to lovers — best friends. And that L.A. was definitely not where we belonged, so moved again seven months later, this time to Washington, D.C.
|SOMEONE ELSE'S WEDDING, '91|
|LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA, '93. NOT EVEN DOMESTIC PARTNERS.|