He's gay, I love him, but I'm not in love with him. Get over it. Daphne Merkin puts a bullet in the fag hag
I am standing at water's edge on a broiling afternoon in late summer, lost in conversation with my friend David. We are exploring the whys and wherefores, as is our habit: how come we are the way we are, our problems with maintaining intimate relationships, which sleeping pills are effective and which zonk you out for the next day, how hard it is to get our work done. We've had conversations like this many times before and will no doubt have them many times again; it is the song we trill together, mining the inner landscape of the psyche the way other people might discuss their tennis game or the latest sex scandal.
David has never learned to swim, which I find oddly endearing. He also smacks noisily when he eats, which I find less so. We've known each other for what seems like forever and often bicker like an unhappily married couple. We could, in point of fact, never be married because David is gay, although I sometimes find myself wondering how things might have developed between us if he weren't. What's certain is that we would have had good-looking children...
Elle August 25, 2011