Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
The week before he left, he woke me up every day with the words, “There’s an angel in my bed.†Though my pillow-mussed hair and yesterday’s makeup left me feeling anything but divine, it was easy to see his small, messy apartment on 83rd Street as a paradise.
All things dreary overtook the day of his flight; it was raining, and slate-colored slush flooded the streets of the Upper West Side.
Can you realize you love someone inside a Duane Reade? I might have. No fireworks, no music, no angels, just me â€" crouched on the floor, trying to figure out what type of Gold Bond he needed me to pick up for his trip. Faced with a row of foot powders and antifungals, I thought it might be love, because otherwise what would I be doing here on this cold, wet Sunday, in ruined boots, helping to pack him up and send him thousands of miles away from me?
Back at his apartment, he jingled his keys in my direction and tossed them to me. “You sure?†I asked him. He was, and I think I am, too.
He got into the cab and sped up Broadway. I walked to the train, squeezing his keys in my hands, leaving small pink ridges that looked like stars indented in my palm.
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