Within a two-block radius of St. Mark’s Place in Manhattan’s East Village, you can have your choice of lunch cuisine: burgers and fries, fish and chips, sushi, Korean BBQ, Shanghai soup dumplings, Margherita pizza, or a felafel sandwich.

Harlow, Rafe’s daughter wanted pizza, but since I was their guest for the afternoon as they looked at co-op apartments in the area (for Harlow after she graduated from Georgetown in May), I voted for Mamoun’s, where I had their delicious signature felafel sandwich.

Of course, I asked for baba ganoush rather than their customary hummus. Harlow and Rafe didn’t agree with me that baba ganoush was healthier than hummus. It’s eggplant vs. chickpeas. Eggplant contains nasunin, an antioxidant that improves blood flow to your brain. It is also high in Vitamin C, which supports your immune system. Baba ganoush is lower by 72 calories per cup than hummus as well. I let them chew on that!

Many of the buildings on either side of 2nd Avenue from St. Mark’s Place to East 10th Street have been recently renovated into co-ops and condos. A bittersweet result of the ongoing gentrification of New York real estate. When I had lived in the East Village, after rooming with Rafe in his one-bedroom West Side apartment for several months, it was a veritable ghetto. There were homeless squatters in Tompkins Square Park. In the late ‘80s, riots broke out as police clashed with squatters and protestors alike. In 1990-91 when I moved in, you routinely had to step over prone, semi-conscious people as you came home from work.

After lunch, like troops making serpentine maneuvers across a battlefield, the three of us spent two hours checking out the buildings on 2nd Avenue until we reached the intersection of the avenue and East 9th Street. It was the building I had lived in 30 years ago, now brand, spanking new co-op units. They escorted us to the model apartment on the top floor.

While Rafe and Harlow examined the shiny new components of the re-configured one-bedroom apartment, I took in the view from the windows overlooking the neighborhood. To the west, St. Mark’s Church stands, its grounds surrounded by aging willow trees. They might have been planted just about the time I moved out of this building. To the east, you can see the northern tip of Tompkins Square Park. Rafe suggested we stroll through the park after Harlow’s done looking at apartments. He assures me the park is now navigable, unlike in its squatter-filled days. The voices of Harlow, her father, and the building manager faded in the distance as my mind reached into its memory bank to view once again the panorama of the time when Rafe and I actually lived together. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. To quote an obscure British writer of the 19th century.

“I think I can get a job and find my own place in a few weeks. Thanks so much for letting me crash until—”

“You can stay here as long as you want, Joey.”

We were sitting on his sofa in the middle of his sparsely furnished West Side apartment. It was definitely not anyone’s idea of a cool, urban bachelor pad. The sofa was not one that pulled out into a bed and it was rather lumpy in spots. The thought of having to sleep on that for more than a few weeks was disturbing. That aside, I was grateful to Rafe for letting me stay in his place on such short notice. It had only been days since Elizabeth had “notified” me that she was selling the loft on Grand Street and my tenancy as well as my relationship with her was terminated. My sister Erica had driven me and my meager possessions across town. She screamed at me and took Elizabeth’s name in vain several times as we crawled through mid-town traffic.

“No offense, Rafe, but sleeping on this lumpy sofa is not my idea of 4-star hospitality.”

“Well…you can sleep in my bed. I mean, it’s a California king size bed. Sally bought it for me as a housewarming gift. It’s big enough to sleep three…comfortably.”

“That would be…kind of awkward, embarrassing even. No, Rafe…just…no.”

“OK. It’s a suggestion. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a really large bed—”

“Rafe!”

It took longer to find a job than I had anticipated. My faculty advisor, Professor Edwards, offered me a teaching assistant-slash-researcher position but the amount I’d make wouldn’t cover Rafe’s monthly cable TV bill. And, given the baleful trajectory of my life recently, I’d lost the desire to complete my doctoral studies and teaching, at any level, was beyond the pale.

While I looked for gainful employment, scoring an interview every other week or so, I made myself useful by “decorating” Rafe’s apartment. He was unexpectedly quite free with my use of his credit cards as I picked up some kitchen necessities, utilitarian furniture, a few cheap but stylish posters to place on his bare walls, and some cds of music I liked (well, I needed to listen to something while I dusted). There was the moment when I caught myself sorting through the tie racks at Barney’s. Not for myself but for Rafe!

It dawned on me that, in the space of less than a month, Rafe and I had morphed into something more than temporary roommates. My days were spent in a manner not foreign to the stay-at-home wives who lived in our building. I picked up Rafe’s dirty clothes, did the laundry, cleaned, dusted, squeezed melons and sorted through green beans at Key Food, sampled the charcuterie bundle at Zabar’s before buying (the counter man at Zabar’s called me Mrs. Metheny since I always used Rafe’s credit card. It would infuriate me until I got home and then, for a good ten minutes, I’d watch Oprah and just cry), and cooked Rafe’s favorite dinner at least twice a week (he really liked mac and cheese).

We did things couples would do. Renting tapes from Blockbuster and sitting shoulder to shoulder watching goofy French films, falling asleep from fatigue or boredom. Going to street fairs and buying silly hats or cheap jewelry to wear. One time, during the Sixth Avenue Street Fair on the Sunday before Memorial Day, because Rafe had his hands full with the African baskets I had insisted we buy, I fed him a Jamaican beef patty from one of the food stalls. The crowd around us chanted, “Kiss her!” Finally, Rafe bussed me on the cheek. The crowd then chanted, “On the lips!” Blushing, I grabbed Rafe’s arm and we moved quickly away before they asked us to do more.

I discussed these matters with my therapist, Dr. Kwan, in my twice-monthly sessions. She just nodded and made some quick notes on her legal pad.

“It’s not like Rafe is asking me to do any of this. It seems to just organically happen. I’m just glad I’ll be able to live on my own once I get a job.”

“Is that something you really want, Joey?”

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“It sounds to me like you’re not unhappy about your current living situation. In fact, you’re as chipper as I’ve seen you in the six months we’ve had these sessions.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not having daily fights with Elizabeth. And rooming with Rafe is a lot less stressful than living with Elizabeth. Don’t you think that’s the reason, doctor?”

“The hour’s almost up. Let’s pick this up next time. If you secure a job by then, we can discuss your feelings about finding a new place to live.”

Then there was the issue of Rafe’s girlfriend, Rose Darling. Her full name was Rose Marie Heather Darling but preferred Rose Darling ever since her college roommate introduced her to the recordings of Steely Dan.

Rose was a Corporate Events Planner. At the time she was dating Rafe, she had just been promoted to Senior Planner for The Javits Center. The very model of the modern career woman, Rose was also stunningly beautiful. I could see why Rafe would be very smitten with her.

Due to their busy schedules, Rose and Rafe usually got together only once a week, usually on Saturday night. Dinner and a movie or a concert/show and then an overnight stay at Rose’s East Side apartment. About two months after I’d moved in, Rose accompanied Rafe home one Sunday morning with the express purpose of meeting me. Rafe had told her that I was a childhood friend who’d been “kicked out” by my ex. I would be staying with him until I got a job that would allow me to get my own place.

Of course, Rafe hadn’t bothered to tell me to expect Rose that morning and I was sitting at the kitchen table, having my second cup of coffee and munching on a slice of buttered toast, when they walked in.

“Joey, this is Rose. Rose, Joey.” I got up from the table and wiped my hands on my bathrobe.

“Pleased to meet you. Rafe, why didn’t you call me first? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake. And the place must look a mess—”

“Oh, no. Rafe’s apartment has never looked as neat and clean. And those art posters. You must have picked those out. Rafe thinks impressionism is what Rich Little does. You know, impressions of famous celebrities. And the couch. It’s so tidy, you’d never believe anyone had been sleeping on it just hours ago—"

Rafe jumped in. “Joey doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore. It was killing his back.”

“So, where do you sleep? Don’t tell me on the floor in a sleeping bag—”

Again, Rafe interjected. “Well, you know my bed is a California king size. Joey’s a pretty small guy—”

“You…you two sleep in the same bed?” She kept her eyes on me. I tried to cover my embarrassment with my coffee mug.

“Oh, Rose, it’s no big deal. We’re old buddies. We even took baths together when we’d stay over at each other’s houses—”

“Yeah, when you were 3 or 4 years old. Not when you’re grown men! Don’t you think this is…strange? Curious? Odd...”

“I’ll be moving out as soon as I get a job—”

“You’ve been here two months already. Are you even looking for a job?”

“Hey, Rose, don’t talk to Joey that way. He’s my best friend. He can stay here as long as he wants. And it takes time to find the right job. He’s not going to deliver pizzas—”

“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, Rafe. But I’ve got a meeting at the Center at noon and I need to change. We’ll talk about this. I’ll call you later in the week.”

Rafe leaned in to kiss Rose on the cheek but she was already pivoting to the front door. Within seconds she had let herself out, slamming the door behind her. I looked at Rafe.

“You could have handled that better, Rafe.”

“She’s that way sometimes. It’s o.k. Say, is there any coffee left?”

But it didn’t turn out to be o.k. Their relationship petered out over the next few weeks as they saw each other and spoke on the phone less and less. Ultimately, Rose used the excuse of her all-consuming new responsibilities as Senior Planner to call off their involvement. Rafe took it like a man, an indifferent man, that is. He shrugged his shoulders when I probed to see if he was hiding his hurt feelings. At the moment, it gave me a frisson to see his non-reaction to his broken romance with Rose. Was Rafe simply a cold fish after all?

The week after they officially split up, we had our weekly Blockbuster night. This time, I had chosen to rent the classic Truffaut film, Jules and Jim, again. Rafe had never seen it and, oddly for him, he didn’t yawn halfway through it and nod off before it ended. One of my favorite films, it is a heady brew of romance and tragedy, idealized love and its wretched reality.

The story revolves around a love triangle: Jules and Jim, good friends, both fall in love with Catherine, a mercurial beauty whose inability to remain in place emotionally dooms their lives. Although she marries Jules and has a daughter with him, Jim cannot forget her and, in an inescapable turn of events, the three enter a menage a trois, living under one roof with Catherine and Jules’ daughter.

A miscarriage and Catherine’s divided loyalties separate the trio as Jim turns to an old girlfriend, intending to marry and forget Catherine. A chance meeting in Paris some years later leads to Catherine desperately trying to rekindle her love affair with Jim. When he demurs, she drives the two of them off a bridge to their deaths. In the end, Jules is left alone to raise their daughter Sabine.

When the movie ended, I hid my face from Rafe. He pulled my hands apart and saw the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Why?”

“Because. Because I can empathize.”

“With…”

“All three of them. I’ve been all three of them at one point or another. Stop looking at me, Rafe. I know I’m being silly—”

“You’re beautiful when you cry—”

“That’s stupid—”

“You look like Jeanne Moreau. No, you do. When you smile. You have the same crooked grin.”

“You’re telling me I look like a woman?”

“You are a woman. To me.”

Rafe moved his face closer, his lips pursed, eyes closed. I hesitated, then gave in to my feelings. Our lips met. It was a sweet, tender kiss. He knew I hurt. Not because of the movie we had just watched. For the years of not knowing who I really was. Even now, there was no certainty. I was like the Jeanne Moreau character, Catherine, unwilling or simply unable to choose between Jules and Jim. In the end, will I also destroy our lives like Catherine did? I separated my lips from Rafe’s and gently pushed him away.

“We can’t, Rafe. We shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t be to you what you need. Not now, maybe not ever.”

“I thought you were on the track to SRS. That’s why you’ve been seeing a therapist. To prepare you for transitioning. You’ll be a woman then. I mean, to me, you’ve always been—”

“I’m at the very beginning of the process, Rafe. There’s no guarantee that I’ll opt for the surgery. In the end, probably but… I’m not sure where I’ll be as a woman when I do. It’s a change in gender not necessarily in sexual orientation.”

“You mean you’re not attracted to me? You don’t have the same feelings I have for you? I love you, Joey. I’ve loved you forever.”

“I love you too, Rafe. I do. But I’m not sure I love you in that way. Not the way that you want. Or deserve. You deserve to have a wife and kids. To be like everyone else in society. You don’t want to be stuck with an…an oddity like me. I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed. We can talk with clearer heads tomorrow.”

Much later that night, I pretended to be fast asleep when Rafe finally slipped into bed. He kept his distance from me, lying almost on the far edge of the bed, facing away. After a few minutes, I could hear his rhythmic breathing. I had to fight the urge to turn and hold him close to me. It was an urge that transcended the physical. I loved Rafe in a way that neither he nor I could fully understand. For both our sakes, I knew I had to move out. Even if I had to deliver pizzas.

I redoubled my efforts to find a job. In the meantime, Rafe and I settled back into a less volatile domestic routine. I don’t think Rafe ever really accepted my reasoning but, in the next two months, we acted more like friendly roommates than potential lovers. For all intents and purposes, it was a happy time in our lives. Rafe was doing well at his architectural firm, having been promoted to project manager. He had decided not to work for his father after graduating from M.I.T. This led to bad feelings between the two but Mr. Matheny was not a man to hold grudges. Rafe was always welcome to return to the fold should he change his mind sometime in the future.

By a stroke of luck, I happened to bump into Eddie Gleason, Elizabeth’s old boyfriend, in Tower Records, shopping for cds. He was no longer a roadie for The Cramps but had carved out a career for himself as a jingle writer for an advertising agency. He proudly told me he was the one who wrote the jingle for that toothpaste commercial that runs seemingly a thousand times a day. After I told him about having split up with Elizabeth, I mentioned I was looking for a decent paying job. Remembering I was an English major with ambitions to write the Great American Novel, he gave me the name of the head copywriter at his agency. I contacted him and arranged for an interview. It was a bonus to discover he was also a Columbia alumnus. Perhaps my luck had truly changed.

To make a long story short, I learned they weren’t hiring in the copywriting department but there were opportunities in sales and program research in the TV networks from whom the agency bought advertising time. He gave me an entrée to someone at the FOX Network and, three weeks later, I was hired as a research analyst in the programming department.

Rafe was visibly dismayed when I told him. Add a month’s salary to the rapidly shrinking amount in my savings account and I would have just enough to rent a modestly priced apartment in the East Village. It meant Rafe and I had possibly six more weeks together. A rather subdued Rafe and I celebrated by having a veritable feast at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, The Silver Palace. Of course, even in a funereal mood, Rafe was able to put away two orders of General Tso’s Chicken. He also washed it all down with several glasses of Smith-Madrone Riesling, a Napa Valley white wine that goes well with Chinese cuisine.

I helped Rafe weave his way into the cab we hailed outside the restaurant. On the way home, Rafe made me promise to grant him a final wish before I moved into my new apartment.

“That’s weeks away, Rafe. Remind me then.”

“No, I’m giving you time to prepare for it.”

“Prepare?”

“You’ll see.” He dozed off as the cab turned up Broadway toward the Upper West Side.

It was a hot August night, to quote Neil Diamond, and Rafe and I were in line to enter S.O.B.s (Sounds of Brazil), the famous dancehall on Varick Street in The West Village. I would move into my new apartment on 2nd Avenue and East 9th Street on the first day of September. This evening of dancing to the salsa beats of Willie Colón was my parting gift to Rafe. The promise I had made to him weeks ago in that cab ride home. I had to prepare for it because Rafe insisted I dress up one last time for his pleasure. The outfit, the shoes, the hairdo, and makeup. My sister Erica helped out, going shopping with me and arranging for me to get the works done at the salon she frequented. Rafe wasted several rolls of film taking countless pictures of me throughout the evening. Joey stepping out the door of the apartment. Joey gingerly getting into the cab on the way to S.O.B.s. Joey half a block away from the entrance to S.O.B.s. Joey standing on line, waiting to go in. Joey trying to salsa dance. And so on.

The highlight of the night was Lonnie Duffy trying to pick me up. Again. Apparently, the star of Glock on the Beat, now in syndication after being cancelled, didn’t recognize me from the last time he tried to pick me up, seven years ago at The Lone Star. Rafe had taken a bathroom break so Duffy must have thought the coast was clear. He was much more laid back in his approach this time, trying to actually chat me up. I was about to remind him about our previous encounter when Rafe returned to the dance floor. Duffy took one look at him and, obviously, the weight of memory crashed onto his feeble brain, recalling the beating he’d received from Rafe years ago. He did a 180 and went off to hunt other game.

At the end of the evening, as we drank cups of chamomile tea to prepare for bed, I relented and allowed Rafe to kiss me good night. That turned into a real make out session and I let Rafe go to bed first, telling him I needed time to take my makeup off and put my clothes away. When I finally slipped into bed, he was out like a light.

After I moved out in September, we would try to get together on a regular basis but, as time went on, my new job started to dominate my life as Rafe’s job dominated his. By Thanksgiving of that year, we were tantamount to whispers in each other’s lives. Our answer machines were full of apologies for last-minute cancellations and work-related excuses.

In December, Rafe had an announcement to make and I dropped by his West Side apartment to hear it.

“Dad’s latest round of chemo didn’t work out. The doctors think there’s nothing more they can do. They give him six months—”

“Oh, Rafe, I’m so sorry.”

“The upshot of all this is that I’ve agreed to take over the company. It’s his final ask and mom’s too. I’m leaving for Silver Springs in two weeks.”

“I’ll miss you, Rafe. We keep moving away from each other, it seems.”

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Joey. We don’t have to be apart. Come with me. We can build a life together in Maryland—”

“Rafe, I—”

“Johns Hopkins is just 40 minutes away from Silver Springs. You can have your SRS there—”

“Your family won’t have me, Rafe. You know that. They’ve never accepted me. This would turn into a shitstorm. You don’t deserve that.”

“My father likes you. He accepts you—”

“Fine. The only one in your family who does and he’ll be gone in six months. I didn’t mean it to sound that way—”

“So, the answer is no?”

“I wish with all my heart it was yes, Rafe, but our lives are headed in different directions. It’s better if we part ways now. I’ll always love you, Rafe. I’ll never, ever forget you.”

We hugged. I kissed him. A kiss that would be the last between us for 30 years. And then I took the stairs down instead of the elevator. He waved goodbye, a forlorn look on his face. I ran down the stairs and out into the street, my eyes red and watery.

Rafe’s voice, thirty years later, calling to me. I turned away from the window. Turned away from the tops of the willow trees surrounding St. Mark’s Church. Turned toward Rafe and Harlow crossing the room toward me.

“Joey, I think we’re done here. Harlow really likes the layout and the neighborhood is greatly improved over what it was when you lived here—”

“Daddy, I’m supposed to meet Jenny for an early dinner and then we’re seeing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center. They’re performing the score live to go along with the movie! Thanks for your help, Joey! See you later, Dad.”

After she left, Rafe turned to me, a wry smile on his face.

“It’s a nice brisk day for a walk in Tompkins Square Park.”

“It’s not the most scenic park in the city, Rafe.”

“The only sight I want to see in that park is the sight of your face. We don’t have much time to spend together. Christmas is just a couple of days away. We can walk and talk.”

He extended his hand to me. I took it.