I was relaxing, bathing in the pink bathtub of my West Hollywood apartment, excitedly talking on the telephone with David. He had told me he loved me as we sat on a rooftop while the New York skies began to rain upon us. I had yet to reciprocate a response utilizing those eight letters that make up those three words.
Instead, I was on the telephone, thousands of miles away, asking him how he could be so certain about me, about us – how he knew I was “the one,” how he knew that he was in love with me. Needless to explain, I was quite the skeptic at the tender age of twenty-five. Though I knew in my heart that I, too, was madly in love with this twenty-one year old from New York, I was scared as shit! Foreshadowing, again? Perhaps, I’ll never know.
While I eventually verbally…
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