My husband the Beatnik did not want to get married at all.
Why do we need a legal contract that compels us to be happy? was his common argument.
Whenever he said it I’d give him an enormous pantomime yawn.
When we’d been together fifteen years, he suggested a trip to the Hudson Valley for a weekend getaway.
In the very center of Grand Central Station he went suddenly down on one knee and tugged a blue Tiffany box from his pocket.
We stood frozen in time, all of New York hurrying by, their footsteps echoing off the cold marble.