I feel old. But yesterday at the PEN reception at the Salmagundi Club, someone told me I was young for a writer and pointed out that the average age of the people around us, from Norman Mailer on down, was about 55, and I was easily the youngest person in the room.
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We walked through Riverside Park, admiring the monarch butterflies and house sparrows. Both of us know that our sexual relationship is temporary, and we each feel guilty about “using” the other one. Ronna said someday she’ll “marry a boring man and have babies,” but she’s sure we’ll always be friends. Back at the apartment, we were seized by the usual passion.
I took the 96th Street bus to see her, and we did laundry and brought in Sichuan food and had a good talk. Then, in her bedroom, we fooled around. It was great but also sad because I may not see her for a long time. After all these years, I still love Ronna and am just as attracted to her as when we started dating back in college.