I called her.

And I could tell, even though she never said it, that she was saying no. She even went so far as to say she’d be free in late April.

But I wanted September. And I told her so.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you say. You can be successful in business, drive a nice car, be good-looking, have all the confidence and power in the world.

Yet even then you just cannot win a woman’s heart.

But I wasn’t going to give up.

And neither will she.

“You’re gay, Jeremy,” she says.

“I’m bisexual,” I say.

“That’s even worse,” she says. She hangs up.

It’s July 31, 2016.  A couple of months to go.

Geez Julie, I had no idea that what I told you last night would have such an impact on you.

Anytime I’d thought of telling you before, I felt shame.

But last night I felt anything but.

I didn’t even think twice about doing it. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

And I’ve done it.

Now what?

She did not respond to him.

So.

I want to make love to you.  I want to watch Amazon Prime with you. I want to us to share a pizza. I want to it all. And as far as I know it will turn out to be an unmitigated disaster. I pretty sure I won’t even be able to get hard. But I want it no other way. I cannot imagine being happier getting things more wrong and inappropriate than with you.

You make it all feel so right.

I want you. I’m coming for you. I’m going to New York on September 19th. 

Be ready.

Pro-prologue

A very brief history of puffousness, staughtfulness and a dash of perfidy

It started off like any typical Sunday morning in a small Nebraska town.

    Two families carpooling to church.   A dubious carburetor was to blame for the blue Oldsmobile stalling on the railroad tracks.  No time for proper prayer.  True to any crash it followed the laws of physics perfectly, taking the occupants of the car into a swirling cauldron of friction, velocity and gravity.  One of the little girls was thrown on impact. In mid air she somersaulted several times before landing smack dab on her beetle-black mary janes.  She’d landed completely unscathed.  

    Until the smoke gave way, like a curtain drawn, to reveal the twist of steel, and the licks of flames, about fifty yards away.  By then he was standing next to her.  

    It was a shock to see someone, beside herself, alive, after what had just happened. He hadn’t been a passenger in their car. He was a complete stranger.  A skinny young boy who just sort of dissolved into being, from the smoke.  

    White T-shirt, jeans.  Well-worn sneakers. The face of pure innocence.  “Did you fall from the train?” she asked.

    “Train?” he asked.

    She pointed at the dragon along the railroad tracks that continued to disgorge fire and steel and rubber and dirt. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m not from there.”

    “I can’t find anyone,” she said. The smoke grew thicker. It was hard to breathe. “I need to find them.”

    “I’ll find them for you,” he said.  He was not Superman. Not even a Clark Kent during his early, rural days. But he was helpful.  He leapt into the smoke. Above the screech of trains and roaring explosions she could hear him tearing through the wrecking, working, digging, freeing.  She could feel his good works.

    Maybe it was a few minutes, maybe ten, when he emerged from the smoke.  In his arms he carried the trunk lid of the car that now looked like a giant Fruit Roll up.  A tiny leg stuck out from it.  With a mary jane shoe attached to it.

    Can’t be, she thought.

    He provided an apology without words, with a sincerity that came more from the sight and sound of his skin sizzling on the metal.  And what she supposed to do with that?

    Be polite, she’d been taught.  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’d like everyone to be…” She searched for the right word. A grown up word. “Better,” she started to say.  Then  “Alive,” she concluded.

    “They are alive,” he said.  His face was sooty and smeared and, above all, serious.  

    “They are?”
     He smiled, his bright teeth aglow with warmth. “Yes. And they always will be.”

     “Oh,” she said. And then, after a moment she said again “Oh.” And then “Oh,”a third time.

     And finally “Oh!”

     And then she peed on herself. And then threw up. And then the paramedics came. And by that time, the boy was gone. But before leaving, she’d asked him to come back. He promised he would. Because this was his first gig, with a little girl (he usually fared much better at these things with kittens, whales and old men).

    He asked her, When should I come back? And because she was only five years old and had no concept of time, she replied Come back in twenty-five years.

    And so it was agreed.