This is actually taking a lot longer than I expected it to. I don't know why I'm surprised. With so much going on, lately, it's a wonder I have time to ponder the essentials, much less the aesthetics. But aesthetics are part of what my world is about, these days, so it's become something of a convoluted Catch 22. Whatever. Good things happening all around us. The new season at the Rio Grande Theatre has been launched and the word is spreading rapidly. Been getting a lot of ink in local newspapers and magazines. People are starting to take notice. My job, though it has really only begun, is accomplished. Hell, I just got a nice hefty raise, after only three months on the job. That's got to count for something, if only that the 16 hour days I've been putting in haven't been for nothing.

And still, despite the long hours, I find myself deliriously happy. The time I get to spend with Donny are still choice. He still lifts me up and, wonder of wonders, doesn't nag me about being a workaholic. He understands that it's part of the job and necessary to accomplish what I need to. He supports me one hundred percent, rather than whining about the fact that I'm never home. I'm damn lucky to have him and I work hard never to forget that. Even the little moments he's unaware of send me. Like when I wake up in the morning and, before rolling out of bed, I kiss him on the neck just to listen to him giggle in his sleep. Or the extreme pleasure I feel when I go about my duties down at the theatre and can hear him playing the piano tucked back on the stage, like a musical phantom. So many little things.

Which, interestingly enough, brings me to the next "word" in Melissa's assigned series. Or, "words" as the case may be. This would be one of the hardest for me to verbalize, simply because my responses are more emotional than logical. I guess that's the fun part. The exercise, as it were. Formulate those gooey, squishy feelings and give them substance. Sure, why not? I've already done so a little above. And it's just a word, right? Right. Take a deep breath and plunghe. That third "word" is "Donny Prosise" and Donny Prosise...

“…is a weird kid.” That’s how I would have referred to him had I met him, ten years earlier. Of course, he would have been 17 or 18 at the time. A high school dropout, living on his own with his boyfriend. I would have been 37 or 38, sliding into my 40s and just finishing up my tenure with Paramount Studios. I would just have been starting work on Blue Food, while he would have been experimenting with nailpolish and wild hair colors. Flamboyantly flashing his big gay colors. There would, I think, have been very little attraction.

So, you see, though there are times when the 20-year age difference makes itself irritatingly apparent, I’m honestly glad that we met when we did. He was just the tonic I needed to jumpstart a tired, jaded outlook and put me back on the path of creative living. Emphasis on the “living,” I think. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened. We’d met before and though I’d thought him adorable, there had been no spark. It took a three-month immersion in community theatre to bring us together. Psycho Beach Party. He was my Starcat. I was his Kanaka. History was made on that stage.

Sharing the stage with Donny was, easily, one of the best experiences I’ve ever had in theatre. And there have been a lot of those. The chemistry between our two characters bled off into our personal lives and, before we knew it, we had become fast friends. Despite words of warning from our significant others, we couldn’t stop spending time with one another. Talking, laughing, dorking out. It was never dull. Which is probably why the friendship withstood the end of the play, the rocky relationship he was in and the dissolution of my own 13-year debacle. We sort of helped each other limp through our respective battlefields together and became even closer in the process.

Even so, I still marvel at the fact that this beautiful, talented and charmingly twisted young man is here. With me. He’s an amazing musician. His fascination with words and languages is refreshing in this text-happy, truncated and mostly illiterate world. He’s outspoken and proudly marches to his own drum. His sex drive surpasses even my own, which is saying something, because, quite frankly, it’s good to finally be with someone who can keep up with me. He’s funny and sharp. He’s a dork in the best possible way. It’s rare that I can leave his presence without at least a smile on my face, no matter how bad the day has been. His touch thrills me. His smell excites me. And he’s here. With me.

He followed me close to 400 miles to happily create a new life. Here. With me. I don’t even know what to say about that last part. This is a man with deep friendships and strong family ties. He had a good job, with great benefits and a nice paycheck. He could have made a very nice life for himself in Phoenix. But he put it all aside, rearranged his life, loaded up his belongings and said “see ya later,” to his peeps. Just to be with me. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand that. And despite my predilection for morbid shoe gazing, especially the airborne variety, I can honestly say nobody has ever made me happier. In every way possible, he’s become the man of my dreams.

He’s also become the only person I’ve ever had a relationship with who holds the power to really and truly break my heart. It’s a very scary feeling to discover, this late in life. It’s a fear that surpasses what was, up until now, my greatest terror; dying alone. In the world of Tarot, he would be my Knight of Cups. A card I’ve never pulled before. I can’t help but think that this latest spread was designed to keep me on my toes. And to make me appreciate the more mercurial aspects of this rollercoaster ride we call life. If I have to be on this ride, I can’t think of a partner I’d rather experience it with.