Months passed. My life hung in limbo as I waited to be released, waited to see what the terms would be. We were living separately (he had moved into our Manhattan apartment), but nothing was resolved. Bills piled up, careers stalled, the house fell into ruin and my husbands silences were broken only by his occasional communications reminding me what a criminal jerk I was.
And then there was David.
All the complications and traumas of those ugly divorce years were multiplied by the drama of David the guy I fell in love with as I was taking leave of my marriage. Did I say that I fell in love with David? What I meant to say is that I dove out of my marriage and into Davids arms exactly the same way a cartoon circus performer dives off a high platform and into a small cup of water, vanishing completely. I clung to David for escape from marriage as if he were the last helicopter pulling out of Saigon. I inflicted upon him my every hope for my salvation and happiness. And, yes, I did love him. But if I could think of a stronger word than desperately to describe how I loved David, I would use that word here, and desperate love is always the toughest way to do it.
I moved right in with David after I left my husband. He was is a gorgeous young man. A born New Yorker, an actor and writer, with those brown liquid-center Italian eyes that have always (have I already mentioned this?) unstitched me. Street-smart, independent, vegetarian, foulmouthed, spiritual, seductive. A rebel poet-Yogi from Yonkers. Gods own sexy rookie shortstop. Bigger than life. Bigger than big. Or at least he was to me. The first time my best friend Susan heard me talking about him, she took one look at the high fever in my face and said to me, Oh my God, baby, you are in so much trouble.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...