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rhyme. Back then I used to think it was deep. And speaking of deep, when we kissed I felt like he touched my soul and showered me with stardust. I talked like that when we were together, heaven help me, and that was just a kiss. I mean,many had knocked on that door—nobody had come in, but I was ready for him to ring my bell.
    I always thought I’d be nervous the first time, but with him it was like I had found a seventh sense, way past the five I knew. Beyond intuition, inner vision, superstition, all of it. Those were the days of his hole-in-the-ground apartment on West Nineteenth Street. It was three steps down from the street, and from the front window we could watch people’s ankles go by. But it was our private universe. We’d eat baguettes and butter, bowls of grapes or Alpha-Bits, smoke a little herb sometimes, laugh, dream…oh yeah, and do it ’til I couldn’t hardly walk. I could listen to him fool around on the piano for hours, making up songs about anything—pizza, sneakers, everlasting love. And the closer we got, the more the balance in my life went straight to hell.
    We’d go to Monday-night jam sessions at dive bars so he could play and maybe connect with a musician looking for a sideman or a record label A&R person out to discover the next musical genius. We’d drag in late, I’d end up skipping class and feeling guilty, like I was letting Olivia down. But I always went to work. For once I had plenty to talk about. Him. His energy and creativity, the places we went, the people he introduced me to—everything about being with him made me feel special. In no time, he let me keep his life organized the way I did Olivia’s. He let me—first sign I had lost my mind.
    My parents lived on my case, said I could not march in and out of their house when I felt like it. I told them I was grown. Where have I heard that lately? Anyway, Mom suggested I move, since there couldn’t be but one grown woman in her house and she had that covered. Daddy said a grown man ought to have a job. I said music was his job. He said thefools playing accordion in the subway could say the same thing. Clearly, we were having a failure to communicate.
    None of that mattered, though, because we were in love. I knew it because he wrote a song that said so and put the tape in a Walkman he gave me for my birthday. I was dumbstruck when I heard it— dumb being the operative word. I think he got carried away too, because next thing I knew we were headed to city hall. Sounds stupid, but I can’t even remember whose idea it was to get married. One day we were sitting in Sunshine, parked in a Jack-in-the-Box lot eating burgers and watching a wedding at the church across the street. He said something like, “Can you imagine us getting married?” And I must have said, “Yes.” By the last slurp of my vanilla shake he had tied the straw wrapper in a bow around my ring finger and we were engaged. I still have that stupid thing in my jewelry box somewhere—keep meaning to toss it. Next thing we were exchanging “I dos” and chunky silver rings that looked more like car parts than jewelry. A guitar player he knew named Melvin and his girlfriend, whose name I never did know, stood up for us. Guess I could have asked Olivia, since she was in on it from the beginning, but that felt kind of weird. I mean, I didn’t tell anybody, including Mom and Dad. Anyway, our honeymoon consisted of a romantic trip on the A train out to Rockaway Beach, where we walked hand in hand in the sand—avoiding cigarette butts, pop-top tabs and broken glass, and celebrating our new lives together.
    â€œWe’re married! Surprise!” After my parents moved beyond shock, I think they were relieved. I was officially off their watch. They gave us the double mattress and box springs I asked for. It was all we could fit in the apartment, and the twin bed was getting a little too