Sunday, January 29, 2006
Packed for the Long Haul
Packed for the Long Haul

When Boy came back from Dubai last Friday, he came in to my apartment with a gigantic red suitcase and a couple of other smaller bags. On observing my stunned face - he was supposed to be staying over for just two days - he grinned and announced, "I'm moving in!"

He ended up staying over at my place since then, for almost nine of the ten days he's been here on the second shift, and that red suitcase has occupied pride of place in my room. He's moved in, into my life and my room, both. I know that so sorely now, when he's due to leave back for the US tonight.

I will sound mushy now. Terribly so. I will sound maudlin now. Horribly so. Last night, he was supposed to spend the night with his extended family, and so he left around eight o' clock. And I felt awful. Gut wrenching. Dependent. Cast aside. I sent him a message, telling him I didn't know how I would deal with his leaving... and twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang.

At eleven thirty pm, he had packed an overnight bag and rushed over, and I stood at the door, shell-shocked, bewildered, but o-so terribly happy.

(Emily might be crying now, but it's ok, because I was weeping buckets myself...!)

It's passed by so quickly, my time with him. I've fallen in love, within a month. Have I ever allowed myself to be this maudlin this fast? Actually, not. It took me five days to realise that I was hooked, line and sinker, by this tall Gujju who came with this fantastic Parsi imitation, a smile that could put Helen to shame, and a set of red luggage that would make d/d green with envy. He's special, and I know that. It's going to be awful, dealing with his going away tonight... but his coming back last night may have actually helped to make things better. Perhaps, I shall deal with it better now. I'll still mope and whine and moan... but I guess it's all part of the LDR phenomenon. I'm not a big fan of this... I never was... But I fell into love with him with my eyes open.

The song I picked for him was "Can't smile without you", Barry Manilow.

You know I Can't Smile Without You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I can't laugh and I can't sing,
I'm findin' it hard to do anything.

And then, I decided, someone as beautiful as Boy doesn't deserve to have a song with such depressing lyrics as this... however catchy the tune may be. But then, there's one line there in the song which does ring true...

You came along, just like a song,
And brightened my day...

All my days. ;-)

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Wednesday, January 25, 2006
I could do black magic
I could do black magic

Boy is back. *Big Grin*

Decided we needed to dance, the other night, so we found ourselves at Voodoo's, the one and only, in Colaba. Dressed for the night, of course. Boy looked amazing in a black sleeveless T and red cord pants, and I was drooling. I sound like a dolt at times, talking about him. D/d would say that I sound like a dolt most of the time, but I'm in a good mood, too good a one to respond in kind for.


The last (and only other) time I went to Voodoo's was with this Friend With Benefits from Calcutta. FWB and I had hit the club, and promptly hit the shots after that. He wasn't the kind to dance on the floor though, so he mostly hung around at the bar with his drink, while I boogeyed my ass. Came back after an hour and told him I had good news and bad news.

FWB: "What's the good news?"

CT, grinning: "Made out with thise completely sexy hottie on the floor, and took his number."

FWB, back slapping and vodka guzzling: "Well done, CT! So what's the bad news?"

CT, looking shamefaced, or as much of it as he could manage after three shots: "Not sure if he's a hooker or not!"

Well, that's always ben the case with me at Voodoo's. Can never be quite sure who's above board and who's under the wallet. Wasn't sure last Saturday either, when Boy and I hit the floor... There was big brawny and blond Muscle Mary, in a black ganji and blue jeans, red-and-white Calvins way higher than the jeans, and I could have sworn that he was a pay-boy, but when his wet hair smacked Boy's arm, and Boy responded with an angry aside about '".. the wretched pros", MM looked quite offended.

Boy likes to dance. He loves to dance. He dances in the back of the cab, when the old Punjabi cabbie puts on deedaar de, deedaar de on the ride. And when he hits a disc, he's the one who pulls me out on the floor, vis-a-vis the other way round, like it used to be with my exes. Boy's hips swivel, his eyes sparkle, and his lips smirk, because he's a fantastic dancer. (And yes, I'm gushing now.) So we danced to a number of silly songs, and quite a few of the good ones as well. Strange thing to say, but I actually prefer Voodoo's music to GB music. And of course, last Saturday, there was much of the same crowd. Recognized Punjabi Muscle Top, dancing with several nubile youing boys... Then, Iranian A was there as well, in a tight full sleeve shirt, concentrating on a tall gangly creature, and I beamed a polite smile at him. Also present was Muscle Ad Guy, with his little coterie of friends, and I shook his hand as well. Butterfly, butterfly....

My wings are clipped, but I'm not complaining.


Funny point of the evening: This ABCD who's chatted with Boy online ages also turned up in Voodoo's , and was apparently quite smitten. He kept hanging around us, trying to make polite small talk and in general trying to get rid of me. There was even that silly message later in the night about him being alone and drunk at the hotel, and whether Boy could slip away. I want to snip off ABCD's balls.

O, wait, he doesn't have any.

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Friday, January 20, 2006
Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!
Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Drumrolls accompanied Emily as he stepped into the Tea Centre. And I followed meekly behind. Actually, I played quite the insolent cur, and made the Maharani of Worli wait for an hour before I showed up. And of course, it was quite inevitable that when Closetalk meets up with Emily/Maharani, the two of us would gather over a cuppa tea and shiver in our shawls like two old English grannys.

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This was part of the Bonding Exercise, you see. Enough of sleaze, I'd decided, it was time I met up with old chaddi-buddies and hung around, discussed men and hung around, sipped tea and hung around. So, we started off with garlic bread and tea, and since we were both famished (both of us being on killer diets), I ordered a mushroom salad and Emily had soup. He put dollops of butter in the soup, but I pretended not to notice.

Soup and salad over, hungry as ever, the two of us decided to amble over to where the Strand Book sale was being held. For the record, the Strand is quite an institution in Bombay. It opened yesterday, and the sale will last till February 5. You get discounts ranging from 40-80% on the books, so if you're new in the city and want to know where to pick up some great books, hit Churchgate station for the sale. There, that was the advertorial. Emily and I did the rounds, up and down the aisles, looking for new books. Saw this collection of gay short stories that Emily trashed, so i put it down again. He picked up a completely hilarious book for a mutual gay friend, and then we started reading unabashedly from the 'adult' section. Excerpts from the story of a guy who goes to a gay gogo bar for the first time. A Parsi aunty passing by glares at us, and Emily hoots in laughter.

I end up buying Dhanvi's Last Song of Dusk, because that's been highly recommended by both d/d and Emily. Then, another book about two gay men that Emily sobbed over. And finally, Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters. True, Boy's no Parsi, but he does a Parsi Gujarai imitation that always gets me in splits!

Of course, I had to end this post with something about Boy! He's coming back to Bombay tonight, and I shall do cartwheels now.


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Wednesday, January 18, 2006
How gay is my life?!
How gay is my life?!

Came home the other night from work, and switched on the radio. GO92.5 FM, the best-est radio station in India, was playing some really nice songs. The Nightshift with Glenn... and nothing remotely seedy about it, though it sounds decidedly so. Tossed my shoes, hung up clothes, changed, glugged some Pepsi from Flatmate, and begged her to let me use her laptop. She agreed, cuz she was on the phone with mum and dad. So I sat. And I blog-surfed. And did some more of that.

And that's when I ended up typing 'gay blog' in the search option of Blogger. Then in Gmail. Then in other search engines, all the while listening to Karma Chameleon on the computer. By this time, Flatmate had finished her phone call and wanted her paws back on the laptop, and fumed when I told her it would take some time. Many more rants later, and glares at the contents onscreen, she huffed and puffed and said that I was completely hopeless and was obsessed with all things gay these days: my life was completely dominated by the gay part of me now!

Shocking news.

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Because, maybe it's true.

Do gay men tend to ignore most other facets of their lives, in favour of harping on that one little homosexual difference between them and society at large? I hate to sound like a Harvard prof gone survey-collecting in Mumbai, but I broached the conversation later with d/d and a couple of other pals. D/d replied in the affirmative, and said, it's important for us, and straight people just don't get that, however well-intended they may be. It's a kind of charm then - a fairy charm (if you will) which you simply can't see.

Of course, it's about much more than just looking for a new gay blog... Hell, there's the whole phenomenon about gay bonding-shonding that's there. Somehow, a fag and his hag are great, but the fag needs a couple of other fags around him, to complete the full look. However pathetic that sounds, it's actually very true. All this demands a post dedicated wholly to Gay Bonding, but that comes later. Knowing my penchant for procrastination,... much, much later...

So maybe it's a kind of search. Even though you know you're not the only gay guy in the city/world/universe, and probably not even in your building complex, you still want to search out and see whether there are other gay guys like you that write blogs like you. I remember a post from Jalaj, where he listed some gay bloggers he liked. There was Famous Gay Journo who called me the other day, doing an article on gay Indian blogs, who asked me whether I'd come across many others of the sort. And I remember hunting the net myself, looking for new guys, Indian or otherwise, who're gay and who blog. Affirmation? Or just plain insecurity? Or maybe, it's to prove a point that gay men write best!



Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Chilli Special
Chilli Special

Sunday, if old songs from the 60s are to be believed, is supposed to be a day of rest. Not true at all, last Sunday for me. Hurried and harried socialising, really, truly, madly, as I dashed off from d/d's house in the armpit of Andheri, after spending the night there, to the apartment of a lovely little lady.

Well, not really very little, but her room mate's boyfriend is quite yummy, and so I'm inclined to be kind to the Insane Bitch. All on account of the cute roomie's boyfriend who comes out of the room sleepy eyed and tousle-haired.

(Viji, stop laughing. Yes, I'm joking. I hate straight men, and everyone knows that.)

I'm not sure what I had in mind, about meeting Vijayeta before meeting Vijayeta. I expected a dynamo That Woman who would regale me with stories of asshole exes and show me her closet full of sharp black stillettoes. I thought I would fade away in the background of a plethora of rich and whacky gay men, and since I'm neither rich nor very whacky, I must admit that I was a bit apprehensive about meeting Viji.

Of course, Insane Bitch will probably hate me for stripping apart her online armour, but Viji's one of the sanest people I know. She does have an insane hankering after shoes, the expensive ones, but she also wears the tackiest rubber chappals at home. We chatted about saddi dilli, and how we both love it, and though that may not exactly sound very endearing to this audience which is decidedly Bombay-biased, we had a really great time yakking. Bitching. Moaning (about servants, mind you!). And Mooning over good looking men on the telly. Quite a normal fag-meets-hag kind of a situation. I'm so thrilled she's not the Rich Bitch With Attitude kind of a person. Whew!

And then there was lunch with family. Very nice, atop Shoppers Stop in Bandra, ginger honey chicken for starters, fried rice and devilled pork for main course. Time for hair cut, so right now, I really DO have that buzzed cut that the famous pic in black shorts boasts of!

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Time to meet Wicked Witch of the West (Bandra). WWW is Nature Boy's original fag hag - sorry, da-ling, I forgot how you hate that word - and I treated her reverentially as The In-law at one point of time. Of course, with age, the old witch has thawed her cold tits, and the two of us went to St Peter's for a bout of six o'clock evening mass. That dispensed with, it was time to meet Pansy Straight Boy at JATC's. WWW painstakingly sharpened her claws for the meeting.

For the record, PSB is a friend of a friend, whom I'd met in saddi dilli when I was living there. He's moved to Bombay now, and we decided to meet up. It was his bad luck that WWW came along with me. The more charitable ones would say that PSB is pansy because he was born in a year of the Goat, according to the Chinese calendar, and such people are expected to be effeminate. WWW, of course, is not very charitable, so she couldn't resist trying to prove every few minutes to PSB that he was a confused twenty-seven year old who wanted to screw the cute waiter serving us. Poor PSB stammered, stuttered, tried to flirt, was quite unsure of where he stood, and stammered again. It was quite hilarious, of course, watching from the sidelines, but then I decided to step in, because after all, I had called him myself, na?

CT: "Don't mind her, she's a witch!"

WWW, pouting: "Yes, I am."

PSB, grinning but not feeling the grin: "Hahaha, you guys are a riot! You're so funny!"

WWW, silkily: "Not half as funny as you are, da-ling!"

CT: "Hush!"

WWW: "So, what do you think of that boy there?"

PSB, flustered: "Huh? Wha-?"

WWW: "I think he's looking at the two of you."

CT, diverted now: "O, he's cute! Green shirt, long nose, but cute."

WWW, cattily: "You have a boyfriend now."

CT sighs but agrees to behave.

PSB: "I don't think he's gay, though. I have a very good gaydar."

WWW slits her eyes and purrs: "I have an excellent gaydar too, da-ling, and I know you're squirming to get in his pants right now!"

PSB stutters and sips his Coke.

Well, I did order Devilled Pork at lunch.

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Friday, January 13, 2006
Black cats and superstitions...
Black cats and superstitions...

Friday the Thirteenth happened to me today. So,

1. I was stuck in a meeting for four hours at Cuffe Parade, but couldn't get to meet the person I wanted to. (Strictly work related, you understand.)

2. I dashed away from the four-hour long wait without lunch to wait again for another hoity-toity floozie, and had to wade through a maniac mob in order to get him to say the things I wanted to hear. (Again, strictly work-related, you see.)

3. Missed Boy's phone calls twice, while I was waiting/dashing, so I felt guilty about that, since the poor dear is taking time away from his soddy relatives in Dubai to call me every day.

4. Finally, after getting my floozies to open their mouths (no puns intended, really!) I had lunch. Which basically means, my diet resolution flew to the winds. German strudles with dollops of fresh whipped cream. Boy will murder me if I compare it to sex, so I won't.

5. Came back to the office with a murderous headache.

6. Realized there was an emergency event in the evening, so I couldn't go back home by six as I had planned.


There's an angel watching over me up there (or in Dubai!) after all, cuz,

1. My handling of the emergency evening event went off very well.

2. Boy finally got through to me on the third try, and we exchanged the usual mushy stuff. (Excuse me while I giggle in appropriate coquetish terms now.)

3. Staying back at work meant that I went though all the blogs in my chain at the left, something which I haven't been able to do in a very long time!

4. And yes, I found this simply delectable pic of Ricky Martin on the net.

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Shush, and don't breathe a word of this to Boy!

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Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Pink trings
Pink trings

Telephone conversations with that purple panther of the gay blogger world, d/d, is quite entertaining. But then, anyone with half a brain who reads The Closet knows that. (Anyone with less than half a brain is easily amused by my prattle, so all of you're welcome, too.) What do we talk about? Everything, really. He insists that he wants to slap me hard when we meet next at Toto's or wherever, because of the way I carry on and on about Boy. He's already bracing himself for the solid wall of whining headed his way when Boy finally leaves for the US of A.

And of course, there are the memorable quotes: "Straight men are also normal, you know", "Of course I must have a merc, a platinum ring, and a boat by the time I'm 30! Only essentials, da-ling!", etc etc etc. All very entertaining.

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Phal, on the other hand, is mad on the phone. Fiendish cackles, outrageous ideas to do things to people. Clever schemes to make them cry for mama, and many more fiendish cackles on the way. She's on a perpetual high. Not too many quotable quotes here - I'm usually left in a daze after she's done.

The other day, I received calls from two other pink pals, people who I thought had quite forgotten me. One was Emily (fondly known as Worli ka Maharani) and the Penguin. Both had heard about the Boy, and they called to learn details and make general coochie-coo noises. Sweethearts, both of them.

There was also Nature Boy who called, and we chatted for quite some time. We talked about Boy, and how he can't recall him at all, from the time I introduced them at the GB party on 31st, and then we moved on to other topics. Food, killing work skeds, mutual friends, haircuts and shopping agendas, coffee as well. Promises were made to meet up - soon - and pleasantries exchanged.

So that made me decide on a resolution: I need more close gay friends. Not just d/d, who is and forever will be, Special. I need more sounding boards to whine about Boy to. I need more 'girls' to have fun with. Somehow, along the way, what with work and carnal drives, I lost touch with these guys. Lost touch with the phenomenon called Gay Bonding. And that's sad. It's sad, if Gay Bonding is relegated only to once-in-a-fortnight parties at d/d or Gupshup's place or GB. How ironic: when Older Ex In Delhi broke up with me, I sniffled and told him that it would be very hard for him to find love because he always clung to the apron strings of his gay pals - and here I am, looking for pals to get gay with. But then, I'm a different person now, than I was in Delhi. And if, more cynical, also more optimistic. Strange combination.

So, as a first step towards my resolution, I'm asking Veed out for that cup of coffee. Veed, you have been formally/informally invited. Just give me the date and time.

CAVEAT: Boy comes back to town on the 20th, so after that I'm probably going to be mooning about him all over again.

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Monday, January 09, 2006
So can you hear the bell around my neck?
So can you hear the bell around my neck?

Was chatting with Sam the other day online, and after about five minutes, he huffed and puffed and told me that now that I was part of a Couple (capital letters), I was no fun any more. Damn, I swore, really? It seems that Singletons are much more fun. Especially when you're online and talking to brawny beefcakes like Sam, who lives in Sydney Down Under. He said, it was very sad that he couldn't flirt with me any more, and when I responded with a surprised why? he said that flirting with me just wasn't enough fun any more.


It's like I'm now officially Owned Cattle.

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Now while that may give me a warm glow whenever I recall Boy and me on Kashid beach over the weekend, it also amuses the hell out of me. I mean, there I was in a stage about three weeks back, where the Coupletons always seemed to have the very best of things, revered by all the lowly Singletons, and suddenly, you realize that at least as far as online chatting is concerned, the Coupleton is akin to a pariah.

It reminds me of that memorable line which my flatmate says whenever she meets a good looking gay person - and with me around, she meets lots of those - "What a colossal waste!" In Singleton terms, I suppose a Coupleton could be termed that: a complete loss of assets that could otherwise have been theirs. (Of course, this is also a fantastic way of looking at things to massage your own ego.)

Nevertheless, on this particular online conversation with Sydney Sam, I laughed and tried to flirt with him as much as possible in a naughty kind of vein, but he was not very satisfied. Especially not when I told him that even though I was 'hitched', we could still carry on with 'harmless' flirting. "And what the hell is harmful flirting then?" he growled back, and I honestly didn't have an answer to that. So I gave him an online smile and a great big hug (online again), and exited the conversation.


On an unrelated stream, Boy and I spent the weekend at Kashid. We had a glorious time together, and I'm going to cherish those memories forever. He's left for his Dubai trip now, though, and I can't wait till he gets back to Bombay next week. I'm praying hard that I get swamped at work now, so that it takes my mind off him for some time at least, but look at me now - smile on my face as I type this out, remembering him and the moonlight strolls on the beach and the grilled prawns on the hotel patio.

Mush. I apologise.

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Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Sleazy Me
Sleazy Me

So the gang came back from Goa, and they heard the news about Boy. In fact, some of them are having dinner with Boy and myself tonight. Prithvi at Juhu. If you're there and you see a table with raucous laughter and lotsa good looking young men, come over and say hi to the closet king and his new love.

I did say KING there, you notice.


Of course, D/d will be there as well, and he promises to give me the lowdown on my new love. He heard me go all mooney-eyed and -voiced on the phone the other day, and said that regulars to the closet might not take too kindly to the shift in gears here.

D/d - chomping on pasta at the other end: "You know, your readers might not like this change in your tone all too much."

CT, dreamy: "Huh, what?"

D/d, smacking lips: "Yea, I mean, everyone comes to your place for sleaze, you know. That Jalaj chap and all."

CT, perplexed: "Really? They come to me for the sleaze?"

D/d: "U-huh."

CT, whining now: "But that's awful! I'm about more than just sleaze. I'm about love and gay issues and boys hurting and love blooming and so many other noble things in life..."

D/d, filing nails: "I'm filing nails now."

CT stops, screwing up lips. Then: "Of course, sleaze is good, too."

D/d, blowing on nails: "Sleaze is the best."

CT, thinking hard: "Jalaj did say somewhere in a comment that he would stop coming to my blog if he sees me get all cerebral."

D/d: "There you go. Is this Jalaj chap cute? I like boys who don't want cerebral things."

CT: "I don't know whether you'd think him cute, but he's not rich, I think. You only want rich guys, anyway."

D/d, putting away file: "Rich boys are convenient, yes."

CT: "I think it's all a show you put on. A little show to pretend you're all shallow, you're really looking for loooooooove. Like me and Boy. In love. I think so, I really do. So, if you just close your eyes and think about falling in love..."

D/d, abruptly: "I'm never going to read your blog again, if you carry on in this vein."

Stone cold silence.


For the record, I'm NOT going to stop gushing about Boy... not till he breaks my heart at least (hope that never happens!) and even in that eventuality, you know I'm going to blog about him in a scathing terms. So, yes, I suppose I shall be talking about Boy for some time.

And also for the record, D/d has decided not to comment on my blog again, because he feels people don't take too kindly to his naturally bitchy comments. I hate that. So everyone please join in my plea in making D/d comment again.

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Sunday, January 01, 2006
Happy New Year
Happy New Year

Wise men say, Only fools rush things
But I can't help falling in Love
With You...

And I always thought this was one of Elvis' mushiest songs. Look at me now: I'm about to embark on something I've traditionally scorned. Your typical Long Distance Relationship, complete with capital letters. To get you up to date:

Last week, I met someone quite by chance. I've got a million names for him right now, ranging from Glitter Boy and Big Nose to Mushy Snot Pot and Fang. It's come to that now: silly nicknames. We met, we met again, and by the second date, it was quite clear to both of us that things were poised to look really great. I think I'm falling in love. It's as simple as that.

And as complicated as that, too.

Because I have to face the fact that come next Tuesday, my boy will not be in Bombay. He'll be somewhere in Dubai. He'll be back again, at the end of January but only for a few days, and then he's gone once more. After that... there's a gap of six months. At least. And I will then moan to my friends about how I miss my boy. Damn.

I always tell people that LDRs don't work. I tell them, that's the surefire route to heartache. If for no other reason, then than that old excuse: libido. I told my Boy the other day, it was silly to expect me to be celibate for the six months he would not be there, and he ruffled my hair in response. He hopes I won't fall in love with someone else, though he says he understands my point of view. I hate acting like the slut that swallowed Bombay, but it's best to get things cleared up, right from the beginning. And I've always hated LDRs because I've found it as a silly excuse to have wanton sex while you're in a so-called relationship. Yikes. I should've bit my tongue at least a thousand times while I told all those people all those things. I feel like biting my own tongue now. Because, honestly speaking, I'm terrified. I'm terrified that what I'm getting into with Boy will leave me shaken and horribly stirred when he leaves and I'm left alone in Bombay again.


But does it sound maudlin to say that it seems just so... right? To say that when he smiles at me, I feel so frikkin' happy? To say that I want to dance with him all night long, not just those sexy salsas and those romantic clasps, but also the silly stuff, where we're both experimenting and not really sure of what we're doing? To say that we laugh like clowns at our stupid (and some good) jokes? To say that I smile to myself in the mirror, when I see the hickeys on my neck and shoulders? To say that I believe him when he says he'll be back for me? To say that I believe him when he says that all we need is some patience and focus to make this work, against all the odds? He makes it seem so easy... and though I know it's not going to be quite that way, does it make sense to say that his confidence is enough to bolster my own?

I've asked myself so many times if we're rushing into this too soon. There's the experience with so many earlier exes telling me that I may be setting myself up for disaster again... and there's the little hope that maybe I'm not.

I love his smile. I love the way his eyes crackle with repressed mischief. I love his big nose, which I like to touch in a baby's grip. I love his elfin ears, almost devoid of earlobes. I love the contrast his six foot frame poses to my five foot six-or-seven. I love the way he cackles in glee. I love his cross between a cough and a burp. I love his generosity and kindness. I love the way he winks at me across the dinner table. I love the way he holds me in his arms, and turns me towards the mirror, so that I can see us both in it, and when he whispers in my ears: See how great we look together?!

And so I have my fingers crossed.