15 0

When I was 45 and recently separated from my husband, I fell in love with a man who lived on a boat. It was not a sailboat or a houseboat. It was a motorized cruiser with a small kitchen, a table and couch, a top deck, and a large semicircular bed nestled in the bow. In that bed, I could lie in any direction, at any angle, like the needle of a compass or the hand of a clock. Everything about this man’s past—his time in juvenile hall, his lack of a formal education, his vast and varied sexual experience—differed from mine. Yet everything about this man as he stood before me on any given morning or afternoon or night felt familiar and perfect. I felt more at ease in his presence than I had in years. Perhaps my entire life. Full story

15 March