I don't do Valentine's Day
1993: My wife and I lived in our two-bedroom apartment on Queen Anne Hill with our two cats, Newton and Noss, a 2 year-old pug named Nero, and my wife's brother, Christophe. At the time Lili was 32 and I was 34. Christophe was 35 and had a birthday in July - so when he died on September 3rd, 1993 from AIDS and pneumonia, he was 36.
Valentine's Day: Christophe was aghast, scowling at me, his left eyebrow arched judgmentally. Christophe, who was raised on three continents, went to English schools and University in Paris. Christophe, with his perfect, stentorian Public School accent. Christophe - antiques dealer, fashion designer, whose idea of a restful weekend was to take bolts of expensive wool fabric and sew together a half dozen or so of his own suits 'for the season;' Christophe, with his thinning six feet four inch body, his round glasses, his chest port for his drugs and his food.
He came out of his room when I answered his question. He was wearing his usual: Blue smoking jacket, crisp white Ralph Lauren cotton pajamas and black slippers.
"What do you mean, you didn't do anything for Lili?"
"I got a card. Here look."
He didn't give it so much as a glance. "It's Valentine's day! Be a man! You need to get her roses."
"Lili hates roses."
"Lili will love roses today, and I insist you buy some - and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot."
I mentally calculated it out - $75 to $100. She'd hate it because she'd know I was spending money she made.
"Our marriage doesn't work that way."
Our marriage worked like this: She was an executive at a commercial printing company. I was a lifeguard and worked for the City of Seattle. She was wages. I was benefits. Lili worked in Tacoma - which was 30 miles away. I worked at Queen Anne Pool. If Christophe needed to go the Clinic or the ER, I could get to him in 10 minutes.
"She'll hate it."
"Listen to yourself." Christophe waited. He was right. Lili would want something, even if it was her money paying for it.
Lili and Christophe lived together for seven years in an apartment in the Yellow Crime Scene Tape section of Brooklyn. When it came to Lili, Christophe was the expert, and we both knew it.
So I went out and bought a dozen red roses and a bottle of Veuve. It became a ritual for several years - then it sort of started to slip away. Years later, when we'd moved to our house in Greenwood and Lili was a massage therapist and I worked as an Administrative Assistant at ADP, we'd be too tired, too irritated and too romantically uninterested to persist. We'd go to the 74th Street Ale house, drink some Fullers and toast Christophe.
It was his holiday, after all.
Valentine's Day: Christophe was aghast, scowling at me, his left eyebrow arched judgmentally. Christophe, who was raised on three continents, went to English schools and University in Paris. Christophe, with his perfect, stentorian Public School accent. Christophe - antiques dealer, fashion designer, whose idea of a restful weekend was to take bolts of expensive wool fabric and sew together a half dozen or so of his own suits 'for the season;' Christophe, with his thinning six feet four inch body, his round glasses, his chest port for his drugs and his food.
He came out of his room when I answered his question. He was wearing his usual: Blue smoking jacket, crisp white Ralph Lauren cotton pajamas and black slippers.
"What do you mean, you didn't do anything for Lili?"
"I got a card. Here look."
He didn't give it so much as a glance. "It's Valentine's day! Be a man! You need to get her roses."
"Lili hates roses."
"Lili will love roses today, and I insist you buy some - and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot."
I mentally calculated it out - $75 to $100. She'd hate it because she'd know I was spending money she made.
"Our marriage doesn't work that way."
Our marriage worked like this: She was an executive at a commercial printing company. I was a lifeguard and worked for the City of Seattle. She was wages. I was benefits. Lili worked in Tacoma - which was 30 miles away. I worked at Queen Anne Pool. If Christophe needed to go the Clinic or the ER, I could get to him in 10 minutes.
"She'll hate it."
"Listen to yourself." Christophe waited. He was right. Lili would want something, even if it was her money paying for it.
Lili and Christophe lived together for seven years in an apartment in the Yellow Crime Scene Tape section of Brooklyn. When it came to Lili, Christophe was the expert, and we both knew it.
So I went out and bought a dozen red roses and a bottle of Veuve. It became a ritual for several years - then it sort of started to slip away. Years later, when we'd moved to our house in Greenwood and Lili was a massage therapist and I worked as an Administrative Assistant at ADP, we'd be too tired, too irritated and too romantically uninterested to persist. We'd go to the 74th Street Ale house, drink some Fullers and toast Christophe.
It was his holiday, after all.