All Else Follows

With that particular blend of irony and self-deprecation so typical of him, D constantly tells me, “I am too old for you.” I just roll my eyes, and answer, “So?” It’s not really an issue, is it?

I tell him that he fits how I thought--or hoped--my lifetime partner would be, like what I have written before:

He belongs to that dwindling band of intractable eccentrics; he shares my passion for learning, classical music and great literature; he understands that for me, books are sacred; he has the admirable ability to express himself in complete, fluid sentences, using precisely chosen words; he is absolutely secure of himself and totally into what he is doing; he knows more about culture than that rigidly circumscribed by television; he is one person I can count on and turn to for solace, comfort and strength; he is so into me that everything else is secondary and has no qualms telling me and the world about it; his intellect and maturity stand out amidst the brazen simplemindedness of youth; he is sensitive to my needs and handles my neurosis even better than I, myself, could; he gets tremendous happiness in making me happy; above all else, he loves me with every fiber of his being.

He unassumingly refutes all except for the last sentence. But when you think about it, that last sentence says it all. From it, all else follows.