"Could we go to a movie and cry together?"
My box of stuff came. Well, two boxes. There were books, and a couple of bags, and a chic black coat that was poor for an English winter but utterly perfect for e New York spring. There was a numbing antiseptic throat spray I did not remember packing (after all, I have moved to America: Land of the Drugs, Whatever Your Ailment). And there were pants, Marks and Spencer's finest, bought and packed by my ma, who has that wonderful ma-sense – the one that knows you can always do with more underwear. When she called, she worried they were the wrong size. (They are. She has rarely ever bought me pants in the right size.)
I now have enough clothes that I went to buy more hangers. My grey fur coat, the one I wore everyday for the first five weeks in this city – the conversation starter, the faithful servant – now lives in a living room closet that smells of new paint. It has an air of extra dignity now, something about the shade of grey, maybe – so like the noble muzzle of a much-loved and very old Great Dane – and as I slip into my long black coat on the way out the door, I give it a mental salute.
***
The other week, en route somewhere in Brooklyn, I almost asked a stranger, Do I need to take the D? I stopped myself just in time. Then I spent three long minutes formulating a way of asking if my route would be shortened by... taking the... getting the... riding the... I am a puerile 13-year-old boy forever, I guess. And then I thought, fuck this shit, and got on the train with hope in my heart and lo! it was the right train after all. Lucky me.
***
Prince died. I went to Minneapolis for work and cried all weekend. All my tender feelings came to the fore, and I swam in them with no thought of saving face. Prince is one of the few who explained very clearly to me what lust is: before him, I had no idea I might even like a lover to wash my hair. The sight of Prince dancing gave me the joy I get when I see black men dancing – complete and pure and deeply soul-nourishing – only more so. On "If I Was Your Girlfriend", he croons, "Not that you're helpless" to a woman he's just asked if he can dress, and it is the sweetest walk-back of a potential explosion I have ever heard in pop. What a lyric! He was luminous.
I will miss knowing he was somewhere out there in the world, and I will miss him.