In the 1970’s I regularly rebuffed the romantic attentions of a young man who was, otherwise, a very dear friend. We’d worked together on newspapers, sharing long hours and endless deadlines always followed by the urgent and passionate talk of the young. Late into the night – or until the wine ran out – we talked of everything. A topic to which we returned over and over was the future – of newspapers, of the world, of language, of our friends and mostly of course of ourselves. (That is, after all, what narcissistic baby boomers did then.) We talked of politics, the arts, social norms, archeology, anthropology, our families, the movies – of beauty and of war.
It was not required that we be particularly knowledgeable about our subjects – the sheer fun of long conversation was sufficient.
He married and had a son. I moved on to other places. We found careers and new friends.
We’re still dear friends. And right now I’m headed off to St. Pete Beach to visit him. He’s here for four days and I get two of them. We’ll eat, we’ll report on family and work.
And of course – we’ll talk.