The beginning of the end

You were gorgeous.

10 years older, you were the darling of the design studio.
It seemed to me everyone wanted you.
You'd taken me to lunch so many times, it seemed you wanted me.

I succumbed the first time because it seemed I owed it to you.
A boat ride to an island in the river.
An hibachi, grilled cod, beer - a picnic away from the world.
Just being there with you was cheating.
Sex was what you wanted.
I needed to be wanted.

I gave up control to you immediately.
I had given up control at home as well.
I was a puppet.
The phone rang and you would tell me where to meet you and I would.
Dark alleys, empty parks, cars.
Never in a bed. Never face to face.

The night you told me to spend the night at your cabin I was beyond happy. The guilt and shame were overwhelming, but I hoped you were finally going to let me in. Maybe everything I'd done with you was justified. Maybe you loved me. Another "Deborah" was there when I showed up. You said she was just a friend, but then what did you tell her about me? She left, I stayed. You cooked clams on the open fire. We drank wine. You cleaned me as if my being sterile was critical. Face to face. On a bed. I fell asleep with you.

In foggy morning, I told you I was going to leave my husband. I did not expect you to be with me, just be my friend. You said, "I'm not your friend. If you leave your husband I'll stop seeing you." I left you instead.

Months later I ran into you at a party and you charmed me into believing you wanted to see me. It would be different this time. You said to meet you at a dance club. I waited alone, nervous, for hours until I finally spotted you dancing with a gorgeous brunette. I approached you and you introduced me to your "girlfriend" a flight attendant who was 28 and appeared quite worldly. I was barely 21 and anything but. You introduced me as "a kid you'd worked with" and then arm around her, led her to a booth where you made out.

You were the only person besides my husband I'd had sex with. I was going to hell. Figured I'd take the express so I ran into the bathroom searching through my purse for anything that I could kill myself with. Nothing. No one consoled me. There was no one I could tell.

My life spiraled downward. I moved in with a guy I barely knew, who asked me to dance that night because he listened.

Don't you be blue

Music brought us together.

I remember pecking out the cords from "We're all alone" and singing the words quietly in the practice room. You picked up a guitar and joined me. You had a warm smile and deep dark eyes. We liked you instantly and invited you to our home. We played music together. You and my husband strumming while I sang. There was joy and companionship and we all laughed so easily.

You had a dream of building a recording studio in your garage. My husband had a dream of being a recording engineer. You realized those dreams together. I was the model for your marketing, a stark contrast shot showing my curls framing a white face, eyes closed, mouth open next to a bulbous microphone. Brainstorm Studios we called that small wooden walled space. At the time, you were our best friend - we were so new to California - so green - so open.

We met your girlfriend, your mistress and everyone else that was in orbit around you. We had front row seats as you dove headfirst into drugs and sex. You were almost satisfied, but the high you sought seems always just out of your reach. The songs you wrote were disjointed and depressing. You wanted fame. You wanted to be the center. But you were like a spinning top as begins to wobble and then lurch before finally falling on its side in a slow final spin.

It became a joke, your coming on to me - begging me to have sex with you. But I'd seen the others that had. You spared nothing in your descriptions of the intimate and often perverted details that you kept from your girlfriend. Cheating was just another high for you. Did you really think that you were hiding anything? The Vaseline covered mirror...the naked women napping in your guest room...Qualludes, mushrooms, pot, speed, cocaine... your growing fascination with death coupled with your growing need for the ultimate high - the ultimate sex - the ultimate look inside yourself.

I was young - I took your mistress from you and made her my own. You never knew we were together, but we knew your fantasy to have sex with both of us. You'd told us so when you'd introduced us.

Your girlfriend left when you moved into the new recording studio. You took up residence in an attic space you created for yourself and your fantasies. No longer was anyone policing your desires. You painted sky on the ceiling of your "bed" room and piped in the sound of the ocean. You created a "red" room where you sampled drugs and seemed to disappear into the flashing red lights and walls.

Life went on below you. The studio was always busy with musicians and artists coming and going. I recorded my song "Don't you be blue" there.

Don't you be blue
Just bubble up all that is hiding inside of you
Cuz whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too... with you
And don't you be sad
No matter how bad it may be you can always be glad that
Whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too

I hear there's sunshine outside
Though clouds are forming around your head
Don't let those blues close your mind
You better be silly willy instead

Don't you be blue
Just bubble up all that is hiding inside of you
Cuz whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too
Oh yeah whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too

It was a magical time in a magical place. We made beautiful music and partied with friends. It was the best time of our lives until you started seeing the psychic. Your constant searching, she said, was because the love of your life had passed before you met her. She told you how you would meet her on the other side - that she was waiting for you to join her. You spoke to this "love" through the psychic and she became the focus of your life. There was a date on your calendar circled in red - you told all of us that on that day you would die and be with your love forever. The day came and went. You lived.

You were a shell, a hulk of flesh - hollowed eyes, stumbling about - a ruined man. We all tried to connect with you, but you let none of us in. The refuge you created above the studio became your cell and you paced it like a wild animal.

You were on the phone with your ex-girlfriend when it ended. The psychic had told you the window to meet the love of your life was closing. She would be reborn without you. You had to catch up. It was sick - what she filled your head with. Even sicker what you filled your own head with. What was left of it was found on the floor near your body and the shotgun you'd used. Your bloody mess was one with the red spinning lights in the red room.

I will never forget the grit of your bones and ash in my hand as we tossed you to the wind.

When you're smiling

My mother thought I should be just like you.

Or rather, she pointed out that my popularity "problem" could be easily remedied by putting a smile on my face. Debbie, you are so pretty when you smile! While I had my dark teenage moments, you seemed to be eternally upbeat. The only difference between you and her is that she smiles all the time! 

I did look up to you. You were a Senior when I was a Sophomore. You were active in my youth group at church. You were head cheerleader, home coming queen. You were pretty.  You got A's and where ever you were, there was always a crowd around you. I have a yearbook full of smiling  photos of you. You seemed to have it all. I understood why my mother wanted me to be like you. You were the daughter parents could put on a pedestal. The good girl with a great attitude and a solid future.

Our mothers were friends. When you invited me to come along with you to a bonfire, I knew my mother had asked your mother to ask you to ask me. Take Debbie. If only she can see more of how you make friends she can learn how to make friends too.

I was 15. I was nervous. I knew it was a set up but I really did want to see how the popular kids had fun. The entire football team would be there. I was terrified.  I would say or do something stupid. I was ugly and a smile was not going to change that. You were perfect. 

The bonfire illuminated the dirt and brush and at it's edges kids mingled in small groups drinking beer. At school I was ignored, so when you left me on my own it was expected. Watching you drink beer and make out with guys was not. Drinking beer in my mind was BREAKING THE LAW. Kissing someone who was not your boyfriend was nasty. You smiled and laughed. When it came time to take me home, you put me in the back seat with Mr. Football star.  It was classic - end of the party, end of the beer, even Debbie looks pretty good now. You were making out in the front seat while the most popular guy in school slipped his arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss. Popular or not. Handsome of not. It felt nasty. I felt nasty. All I wanted was to be taken home.

I'm sure my rebuff of him was the talk of the school. Who does she think she is?

I never looked at you the same way after that. Your smile hid more than it showed. My mother continued to encourage me to smile more and to ask you to go out again. Debbie, I'm sure she would love to take you along to more outings if you'd just ask her. Right. High School is easy like that.

It was years later that I found out you'd gone mad.

You stayed in our little town. One day you put you drew the curtains and refused to let your children leave your darkened home.  God had told you that the devil was in electricity. 

One day you just stopped smiling. 

Leatherette

The sofa I found for us was leatherette.

I had a budget of one thousand dollars to furnish an entire apartment, a seemly huge amount of money until I priced out the items we'd need. A table and four chairs because I planned on entertaining new friends we would certainly be meeting in our new city. A guest bed for family who I hoped would fly to visit and be impressed by our new home. A chest of drawers or two, bedside tables, lamps, coffee table, end table, book shelves, a fake bentwood cane rocker and the leatherette sofa I pretended was real leather.

I sacrificed a wood table and chairs in favor of a metal/formica topped octagon so I could get that sofa. The guest bed ended up being just the hollywood frame that came with the cheap mattress so I could get that sofa. That sofa was the symbol of my adulthood. No one in my family had ever owned a modern style sofa and no one I'd ever known had one that was leather - or at least could pass for leather. This was my prize purchase and that sofa followed me from apartment to apartment, from city to city, from relationship to relationship, till at last - it became the parting gift in yet another break up.

When I bought it, I had dreams of us laying in each other's arms while we watched TV together.  I imagined that's what couples did once the relationship settled into it's day to day rhythm. You never held me. Until the move it was what I accepted as normal. I had never seen my parents sitting and hugging. My vision came from movies and TV where couples madly in love would be drawn by the force of their need for each other to spend not just their nights entwined, but daytime too. An oversize, overstuffed  chair would be an invitation for the man to pull his woman into his lap where they would nuzzle and kiss. She would feel adored, safe, partnered with her soulmate. A sofa, a buttery leather-like six feet of cushion  plus padded arm rests would be like a magic carpet. In a heartbeat they could be laying heart to heart as rain beat against the wood decking outside. A constant in a changing world. Alone together. A couple.

Our old sofa had been handed down in your family for so many years the cushions had lost their fluff. The fabric on the arms and edges of the seats were rough from all manner of spills. It smelled. You would not consider turning it down when it was offered. It was free. When we were dating we'd had sex on that couch, but when it became ours, I don't recall us even sitting on it together. When we left it behind, I felt all our issues would be left behind too. A new city, a new life, a new chance for the magic that I believed had brought us together to take hold. In our new city, in our new apartment we would finally become the romantic couple I'd imagined.

The minute the leatherette sofa was brought up the stairs and into our apartment, you claimed it for yourself, much like your father had claimed his recliner. You saw it as your throne from which you would rule your family (me) much like your father had ruled his. 

I have two strong memories of you and the leatherette sofa, and both happened on the same rainy day. You were laying alone on the sofa watching TV while I worked at my little art desk tucked under the stairs. You told me to get up and make you a sandwich. I was busy. My art project was due the next day. You demanded I get up and make you a sandwich. There had been nights when I watched TV from the floor when you would suddenly throw things at me. At those times I had said something that made you mad, but that day I'd been working quietly. I suggested you get yourself a sandwich. I'd just returned from the grocery - there was fresh bread and peanut butter. 

I remember how fast you moved from the leatherette sofa to my side. Your displeasure was heavy and threatening. I flinched but kept working on my project. You moved to the tiny kitchen and slammed drawers open and closed. It was my fault, you said, I'd hidden the peanut butter and the bread, how were you to know where they were? 

I remember smiling and laughing a bit at that. The kitchen was so tiny we could not be in it at the same time. There was one cupboard that held the food. I always put the peanut butter and bread in the same place. Open one door and there they were at the front. They could not have been easier to find.

I remember how fast you moved from the kitchen drawer that held our knives to my side. The knife glittered a bit in the florescent light. There seemed to be no light in your eyes, "I SAID make me a sandwich." And I did. I was crying as I did. I knew in that moment we were never going change. You were never going to change. You took your sandwich to the leatherette sofa and chewed with your eyes glued to the TV. You took no notice of me standing, drained and sobbing. The knife was on the counter. As I sobbed I dreamed of using it on my wrists. I dreamed of pouring out the pain I felt by draining it from my body. Then you would see. Then you would realize how much I needed to be held, to feel safe, to be be partnered, to be adored. Your face would soften and I would not believe how fast you would move from the sofa to my side to hold me up as I slumped to the floor, dying. Tears would well up in your eyes and I would feel your tears fall on my face as you looked deep into my eyes as you told me you were so sorry. 

Like a sleepwalker I shuffled from the kitchen across the cheap brown shag carpet. I had managed to slow my tears to a series of rough gasps.  I stood over you, within reach, waiting for you to turn your empty face to me, waiting for your cold blue eyes to meet mine. 

And when at last you acknowledged me, I begged to be held.

Head on

It was in art class that you told me you'd broken into the student council closet that held all the candy machine supplies. You pushed a candy bar at me with a sneer. I don't believe we'd ever even shared two words before that. I was a freak then, I know that, and you wanted to see how the freak would respond.

I was not popular in High School. I was reasonably attractive. I was good at almost everything, and especially good at art, but what made me a freak was that I could not lie. That paired with a hyper sensibility to rules meant if you broke a rule in front of me, I would report you. I cared more about how adults saw me than how other kids saw me. It made me feel empowered. It also made me a victim.

I had been one of the kids that got the school to agree to the candy machine. The proceeds were going to fund dances and the like. My point was that these would benefit all of us.

You were one of a gang of "bad boys" who split their time between auto shop, cruising, and harassing other kids in the halls. There was no question, you were dangerous. Your friends were dangerous. There had been rumors of weapons at school and beatings after school. If you weren't the gang's leader you were certainly at the top of the pack. No one stood up to you.

I stared at the candy then calmly suggested you should put it back - all of it. I told you if you put it back, I would pretend you never told me. I also told you if you did not put it back, I would report you.

You laughed at me. I reported you.

Retribution came first with threats from your gang. I was cornered in a hall and weapons were flashed at me. They were clear, I would pay for turning you in. Something stopped me from reporting that. Perhaps fear. Perhaps curiosity. It was not long before I found my beloved VW bug destroyed in the school parking lot. Tires flattened. Paint scraped and dented from the knives and the brass knuckles I'd seen.

I should have been scared, but instead I saw it as an act of cowardice. They had attacked my car, not me. My car could not fight back. My car could be repaired and I refused to be bullied. I marched back in and reported the damage and the prior threats.

I was marked. From then on every time someone truant was found out, every infraction of the rules - anything at all - it was assumed I told. Nothing I could say or do could change those opinions. I did not know anything outside my own little world, but it did not matter. I was a snitch.

My sister dated within your gang. She wore the leather jacket and played the bad girl to my goody two shoes. I'd cried wolf so many times, our parents ignored my pleas for them to stop her.

When I heard you were in the car that crashed head on into a tree at 50mph - I cried. The boy who'd put the jacket on my sister was in that car too as was another of those who'd threatened me. I was away at college by then. You and your friends were drinking and cruising that night. Everyone in the car died. For the rest of us, life went on.

That day in art class, I was willing to lie for you.
I was not afraid of you.
I was afraid for you, and the path I saw you on.

You died within walking distance of the cemetery you were buried in.

Lier

You lived in the apartment behind my Portland flat.

You worked at the grocery across the street. You invited me to come and listen to Fleetwood Mac's new album. You took my hand and led me into your dark apartment. You were a gentle young man,18, shy,and polite. I been raped a few months before and I was afraid. You smiled and convinced me all you wanted was to be my friend. I believed you. I was alone and facing cancer and I needed a friend.

I drove myself to the hospital for the surgery. I was only 20. I arrived with my suitcase and a photo of my boyfriend Doug and myself which I put beside the bed. I told the nurses about Doug and that he was in California. A priest came to talk to be before the surgery. I'm certain he meant to set my mind at ease, but instead he left me feeling like I would die that day. I went under ready to pass.

I woke up back in my hospital room. There was movement all around me and hands exploring my body - adjusting my clothing and in my drugged state - I assumed it was the nurses. My vision cleared and you were in my room. You were removing my hospital gown. The nurses had let you into my room because you told them you were my boyfriend. I tried to call out for help, but I'd just had surgery to remove a lymph node in my neck. I was bandaged and in pain. You kept saying you were there to take care of me. I fought you and the noise brought the nurses and you ran.

I should have had them call the police. I should have sued them for letting you into my room. I should have trusted my own mind that you had really been there, but I was 20 and nothing seemed real then.

The lymph node was sent to the lab but determined not to be cancerous. It was strange though, as it was grey and crumbled once removed. Atrophied. My tonsils had done the same thing. I was not dying. But I was in pain, both from the surgery and the intense back pain from the anesthetic. I did not know then I had defect in my spine.

I was trapped in my flat. Flat on my back, in intense pain and taking so many drugs I was in and out of consciousness. I had no one to come and take care of me. A part of me wished I had died rather than be in so much pain and alone.

I woke up with you in my bed. You had broken into my flat. I was groggy and limp and you repeated what you'd said in my hospital room, you were there to take care of me.

You lied.

Damned

I damned myself to hell for you.

I admitted my sins against you and the catholic church so you could get your annulment. Never mind we'd been divorced for years and I'd remarried. Never mind I'm not catholic. Never mind you weren't either. That call to tell me you'd come across the continent to peer in my apartment window, that was the last time we talked. Was it stalking or were you just needing to be sure you sent the document to the right Deborah?

This is the place where I talk about how when we broke up you moved as far away as you possibly could and still be in the same country. You found a girl who was my age, who looked like me, another Deborah. Literally, Deborah, with the same last name I had when I was married to you. Typically I move from that to how I agreed to damn myself to hell, and then back to the stalking. The story peters out that that point with hints of my trying to find out about your life through family and in the last few years, through internet. The story used to end there with me saying, I really don't know anything about his life now.

When I began blogging, I had a blog stalker. The person's screen name was name of our first cat. The person was only commenting on my blogs and was not posting. The tone of the comments from him and the questions he asked about my father - they pointed to a person who knew me and all the places I'd lived.

It was about that same time I wrote a post about us and I included your photo. And your name. And within a day I had an email from you. It was a request to take down the post. I did. And there lies the mystery. Was it really you who wrote me from the generic gmail address or was it my blog stalker?

Where you pretending to be someone else to peer in my windows again, or was someone peering in my windows pretending to be you?

Damned if I know.

5, 6, 7, 8

I was uncomfortable being alone with you.
You were a cheerleader. You were popular. I was neither.

When you asked to talk with me, alone, I was certain it had to be a trick. I waited for the bucket of blood to drop on my head. I waited for the set up of "this boy really likes you...." I ran my hand underneath to check for gum before I sat. I was so uncool it was epic. Your click needed only to whisper my name in each other's ears and the laughter would spread throughout the lunch room. None of you ever TALKED to me.

Until that afternoon you and I shared a name, but little else.

It was about a boy. You had a crush on a boy and you desperately needed someone to talk too. It seems this boy was the captain of the football team (classic) and gorgeous and the boyfriend of your best friend, also a cheerleader. You had my attention at "I need to talk about Shawn." In our small high school everyone knew everyone else and those with gossip held court. And yet, somehow you knew I would not do that. Somehow you knew that I would actually listen.

I'm sure I must have told you to tell him how you felt.
I'm sure I must have told you to be honest with your friend that you liked her boyfriend.
I'm sure I must have told you that if something is meant to be, it will be.

You married Shawn.
Your daughter became a cheerleader at the same High School.
You have grandchildren with Shawn.
You still live there, I think, and you are still friends with the girl who was dating him.
Shawn went bald.
I'd bet you are still blonde.

Thank you for talking to me that day, Deb.

Be happy

I used to say you were crazy, that you were verbally abusive, that you hated sex, that you treated me like your slave, that you threatened me with a steak knife.

It made it easier to accept what I put you through. I realize the ending was abrupt for you, but once I realized I could end our marriage, I was on-board.

You must see it now - we were too young. On my end, I was in love with the idea of being in love. When we were in High School I loved being your girlfriend. I loved hanging out with you listening to music. I loved going on ski trips with you and driving trips to Kansas and laughing together about how funny all our relatives were. I did not know what being in love meant. I knew the cheerleaders all had crushes on you.

I wanted to get married because we'd had sex. My mother had told me only engaged couples should have sex. You had free will. You could have said no. It was obvious when we walked back down the aisle and you were crying that you were having second thoughts.

We were married for less than 2 years. I don't remember us being "happily" married for any of it. So here I am, 34 years later telling you - sorry. Sorry for making you miserable. Sorry for how horrible I was at the end. Sorry for being unfaithful and hurtful. Sorry for making you feel you needed to take all our money and the car and my motorcycle. Sorry for making you feel so angry that you called my father in an attempt to get him to commit me. Sorry for being such a horrid person that your family erased me from their lives. Sorry it took years for you to let go and move on. I'm sorry I spent most of my 20's looking over my shoulder and expecting you to be following me.

If you are reading this - be happy I left.

No words

No Words

Bastard

I was just 21 and obviously naive. You weren't the first to take advantage of that. My boss at the pub where I worked had tried just a week before. He kissed me - then tried to fondle me. Seems by letting him kiss me I was a "c--k tease." By asking him to stop I was a "bitch."

Predator

In the middle of showing my portfolio to a Portland art director - he got up and locked the door. He explained how his instant amorous behavior was caused by the green eyeshadow I was wearing. I got out of his office by promising to go to lunch with him.

Abuser

Certainly it was nativity that led me to have an affair with an co-worker. At 20, I had only been with oppressive my husband. The co-worker took me to lunches that felt like dates. I was spellbound by the interest he showed in me, but once the relationship turned sexual - I became his victim. He used me up. When I told him my marriage was over, he said, "I am not your friend."

Pretender

I was easy prey for you. You knew everyone who worked at the pub and they all treated you like a friend. You had me believing you cared for me. All you really had to do was listen, and smile, and hold my hand. I'd been through so much. You were so strong and you seemed so sweet. It was nothing to get me into your bed.

Opportunist

I woke up that morning needing to let out the pain I was feeling. I went to my art desk, picked up an exacto blade and began making tiny cuts on my arm. There was no one there to stop me. The boyfriend was at work and he'd told me that morning we were through. He'd found out about you. My ex husband was suing me. I cut and cut and bled and cried and the phone rang. I told you what I was doing. You told me to come over.

Rapist

You really didn't need the pills you gave me. I walked in numb. My makeup was running down my face as you got out your camera. Whoever you were taking photos of surely it wasn't me. I was somewhere else, barely aware you were talking me out of my clothes bit by bit, click by click. There was moment of calm as you laid me on your bed upstairs. I trusted you. I thought you were going to hold me while I slept. I wanted to sleep. I was going to sleep, until I saw the camera on the tripod. I was groggy, pleading with you to stop. I was saying "NO!" as you raped her to the rhythmic sounds of the automatic shutter.

At the time, I blamed myself for what you did to me. I never reported it. Months later you called and suggested I should come over and we'd look at the photos you'd taken of me.

There is no word for that.

Stand up

Friday the 13th at the Punchline in San Francisco, you bombed.

I'd never seen your act tank before and I was in agony for you. I came with my girlfriend and she and I were to meet you and a friend of yours after the show for a drink. It was just to be a friendly outing, but my girlfriend knew the truth. I was crazy about you.

In the months you and I had been talking and all the shows you'd invited me to, this was the first time you'd asked me to meet you after a show. Usually you kept me at a distance. I was just happy to be around you. From the moment I first watched you walk on stage to open for another comedian, I knew you'd be famous. You became even more famous than I could have imagined.

That night, my girlfriend started pushing me to make a play for you. She was insanely jealous. San Francisco in the late 70's - I was seeing her. I never told you that. Making love to you was OK in her book but BEING in love with you was not. To upset me, she she picked a guy at random and left with him moments before you stepped up to the mic. Sitting in the dark, dead room, I was vulnerable. I did not want to suddenly fall into bed with you. I wanted to slowly fall in love with you.

We walked to Enricos. As we passed all the strip joints you told me how you'd been working on your dancing at the Paladium. You told me about your new contacts in LA and how you were hoping to get into TV. We sat in at a table near the sidewalk, in case my girlfriend came to find us. We had quite a bit to drink. Your friend was so sweet. He'd been friends with you and your brother since high school. He'd been to Vietnam. You were so gentle with him. He was staying with you and he invited me to stay with you too and said you and he would make me breakfast.
We laughed. I did not know know who the man was that joined us at the table. I know you introduced us and that he was a producer and you held this man in great respect. He talked of how you would be famous. He talked about how good it was to see you out with a beautiful woman. Me. He was talking about me. The rest became a blur when I felt you move your chair closer to mine and you took my hand under the table. So gentle. So electric. I wondered if my girlfriend was right after all.

We stumbled from the bar and somehow it was decided you should drive my car because I was drunk. On the way to the car, you kissed me. All my reserve vanished. I was crazy about you. You were obviously attracted to me. Whatever the night would hold was meant to be. It was playful and sweet - making out in front of your apartment on Twin Peaks. Your friend seemed so happy I'd come back with you. I liked him so much.

I was on your couch. You were in your bed. Your friend was on your floor snoring. I got up to go to the bathroom and on my way back you pulled me into your bed. We were drunk. And it happened so fast. In a heartbeat you were telling me to go back and sleep on the couch because you could not sleep with me in your bed.

Did you know I cried myself to sleep?
Kicked out of bed. What had I done?
Why had I gotten into your bed at all?

Once the light began coming in the windows, I slipped onto the balcony overlooking the Castro. Your friend came out with me. He was excited that you and he would be making me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you would be wanting to make me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you wanted me there when he woke up. I hugged him and I left.

We barely talked after that. And once you became famous it seemed like I'd only slept with you because you were famous. But you weren't then. What were you thinking? What led you to believe I was expendable? Usable? How could you be so romantic one moment and cruel the next. Were you so clueless you could not see how much I cared for you? I was not a groupie. I was humiliated and ashamed.

And then, you were everywhere. Every time I saw you on TV, I played through my head what I would tell you, how I would clear my honor. I played it out in dreams. I told anyone who would listen. I dreamed you said you were sorry you'd hurt me.

Last week I read an article that says you met your wife around the same time I knew you. You've been together almost 30 years. You have children. You are still performing, but I can't bring myself to come to your shows.

You knew I was married when you invited me into your bed.
Would the story have ended differently if I had been single?

No, things work out the way they are supposed to.
I expect I'll never get that apology.

Office romance

I've carried this question with me for over 30 years, "Did you ever become a novelist?"

I remember you talking about moving to a small town in Maine, looking out over the ocean, and writing. I'm sure you got a boat once you got there. I remember days sailing with you on the San Francisco bay. You were one of the easiest people to be with I have ever met.

At 36 you were probably you were caught off-guard by the attention of the 23 year old rebel artist in the office. I had no sense of how to be corporate (or appropriate) and lived for office humor and flirting with you. We became close in a way I hadn't known before. I adored our lunches in the park. When I think of you, I smile as big as I did then.

I was thrilled with you began dating the new editor in our office. You got married, right? And when you two moved to Maine, wasn't she pregnant? You were the kind of guy that would make an excellent father. When you got sick and she and I were both looking in on you, that's when I knew she was the right girl for you. She was in love with you. Not that I wasn't.

I loved you. I just couldn't be with you.