I laugh, disarmed. I tell him it’s patented—he’s sworn to secrecy.
O smiles.
“And if I hold you closely enough, I can hear your brain,” I tell him.
_____________________
8-18-09:
We talk about a scene in Roman Elegies in which Goethe taps out hexameters on his sleeping lover’s back: “Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber,” O recites from memory.
“Or his slumber,” I add.
_____________________
9-29-09: Sometimes people recognize Oliver. Tonight, a young man approached our table and introduced himself. He was very flirtatious, which O enjoyed but did not reciprocate. “I already have one delectable addition to my life,” he said later. “That should be enough.”
_____________________
9-30-09:
Funny:
I like to get kind of verbal in bed sometimes, but I am finding this does not work well when you’re having sex with someone who’s practically deaf: “What was that? Were you saying something?” O will ask in the heat of things with great sincerity.
“Oliver! Don’t make me repeat it!”
At which point, we both dissolve in laughter.
“Deaf Sex,” we affectionately call this.
_____________________
10-24-09: Taking a C train from Seventy-Second to Fourteenth: I dash into the crowded car, reach for a pole to steady myself. The pole is still warm with heat from other riders’ hands.
“Did it hurt?” I hear.
I turn in the direction of the voice. Seated beneath me, a young Latina—maybe nineteen or twenty—meets my eyes. “Did that hurt?” she asks pointing to my arm. “Your tattoo?”
I smile. “Yeah, it did actually. The skin there is really thin—lots of nerve endings. But it was worth it.”
She nods.
“What do you want to get?” I ask her.
“A fairy—a little fairy—and then the Egyptian hieroglyph for destiny.”
She is wearing a copper-colored wig, cut into a blunt bob with severe bangs. She looks a like an Egyptian princess. She is the Cleopatra of the C train.
“That sounds wonderful,” I tell her. “Go for it.”
Cleopatra smiles and settles back into her seat.
_____________________
10-31-09:
O: “I don’t so much fear death as I do wasting life.”
Undated Note—October 2009: Visited O in the hospital—a total knee replacement (alas, all those years of super-heavy weightlifting). At first, he looked mortified because a friend, who doesn’t know about us, was visiting him. But then, I could tell, he was happy I came.
_____________________
11-11-09:
Knee surgery has exacerbated other problems—sciatica and disc pain so severe O cannot sit to write. He might have to have back surgery. I construct a standing desk on the kitchen counter made from stacks of books and a nice flat piece of wood I found in the basement. He works nonstop through the night on his new book, The Mind’s Eye.
“Writing is more important than pain,” he says.
_____________________
Undated Notes—December 2009:
My head on O’s chest, he caresses my biceps, very, very softly. I think the Dilaudid has kicked in.
“You like those?” I ask.
“Oh yes—they’re like … beautiful tumors—”
I chuckle—how flattering.
“—voluptuous tumescences … !”
_____________________
I: “Do you need anything?”
O: “Could you pull off my socks?”
I smile, and do so, kiss him on the forehead, and say good night.
“I feel beautifully comfortable with you,” O says.
_____________________
11-21-09:
Note to self, on the back of a Verizon envelope: “Sometimes it will be difficult and you’ll question why you ever moved here. But New York will always answer you.”
Yes, remember that: New York will always answer you.
_____________________
12-22-09:
On my way to the airport to visit family for the holidays, I stopped by O’s office to say goodbye. I found myself confessing something that has been gradually formulating in my mind for many weeks now, but never expressed: “I am in love with you, Oliver.” He fought back tears. I kissed his head, held him, told him it’s going to be okay, I’d be back from Seattle soon. He nodded. We walked out to the main room, where his two assistants, Kate and Hailey, work. “Watch over this guy,” I said. Then O and I (no longer having privacy) shook hands.
_____________________
12-26-09: O, on the phone from NY, stutters to speak: “I know that I put up all kinds of restrictions. Barriers. And was reluctant to go places with you in public. I now want to say that I love you, too, and I would be happy to go anywhere with you.”
I am smiling broadly on the other side of the country.
“And I, with you, young man,” I tell him.
Young Love in the Park
A FISHERMAN ON THE SUBWAY