Shall I tell you a story?

There was once a little boy who spent hours each day alone in his playroom. There were lots of toys there to keep him occupied and he was posessed of the kind of imagination that could pose Star Wars action figures in a land of Legos and Lincoln Logs; a land where parents did not divorce and no one ever said goodbye.

I've gone and fallen in love again. With a man whose goodbye was already on his lips the day we met- he's moving far, far away. And I thought I was being strong and aloof and casual. Something changed, and I don't know how, but last night was definitely the hardest. I don't think either of us knew what to say (only ten days left!). So we just sat there and stared at each other...

He was content in this room in which he had created his world, and which no one else entered. He was a remarkable little boy too, because no one ever had to remind him to keep this room tidy. In fact, he took pride at the end of each day in putting away all his blocks, and colouring books and puzzles. This way, he cleverly reasoned, he could start fresh tomorrow.

It's true we lose our innocence, but what, if anything do we gain?

Shameful lack of judgement
Or curious dream?
A dim memory haunts me today-
A blackened hazy flashback from last night's party.

Exiting in the pre-dawn mist,
My date the host
Waylaid by endless goodbyes,
The crowd around me a swirling sea of white.
The best mate
Of my host the date
Looming before me.
His eyes burning, his steps advancing.
A kiss,
The kind that lingers.
My fate the ghost
Smelling vaguely of juniper,
And me suddenly sinking.

Much later,
My date the host
Smiling softly in my arms.
The episode unseen, unnoticed.
My state the most
Impaired by gin,
Perhaps I never kissed his friend.

I have here an invitation to what promises to be an august beginning to the New York social season, as well as the end to the cause of my lately fluttering heart. That young man with whom I've been sharing my precious leisure moments (ah, that night on the steps at Union Square) is throwing quite a bash on Saturday to mark both his fortieth year and his imminent move to Hong Kong. A double celebration in the company of five hundred of his most dear.

Naturally like all great parties this one will have a theme. It is to be a white party and frankly, I couldn't be more pleased. That suit I ordered for my niece's christening will live to see another day. I'm quite looking forward to the event, despite the fact that we have decided to turn down the flames of our ardour. They're on simmer, actually, as the man is leaving these shores in less than two weeks' time.

Oddly enough, I'm neither saddened by his departure nor cursing the fates who so consistently throw in my path 'perfect' men who are unavailable. We had a brief but lovely time. I will never forget him and will pay him the tribute of arriving at his party chic-ly dressed, utterly charming and, one hopes, devastatingly gorgeous.

And when I had arrived in New York and had hastily unpacked my bags and showered away the eight hour flight and headed out into the afternoon sun to prolong, yes, the holiday spirit that still lingered within, and found a shaded table neath the colourful umbrellas of an East Village cafe and sipped, yes, the excellent brew that is cheap at the price, having removed the sunglasses that had been so necessary all those weeks in France, that had kept me from so much trouble, it was then that my eyes, defenseless, fell on those, hazel, of a young man who stood just over there...

The following night while all the city wrestled with the intense heat that still waged its relentless assault, two very good looking and slender men loitered the downtown streets cooled by the refreshing breeze of their own burgeoning mutual affection. Although they were dressed in the youthful fashions of the day, if asked they would have truthfully given their ages as somewhere near forty. But no one asked them and in fact, they were quite untroubled by the passersby, and eventually turned in to one of the more casual eateries in the neighbourhood where it was discovered that they shared a fondness for Tanqueray gin.

Hours later they were seen sprawled along the wide steps at Union Square where a street performer was gently entertaining the midnight crowd. One of our two men had miraculously produced two little dogs on great leashes, although it is not clear at what point he went home to retrieve them. The other man appeared to be less comfortable around the two playful pups only warming to them after repeated nuzzles and other endearing canine entreaties. It was impossible not to notice these two men who seemed to be enveloped in the soft glow of purity and romance.

In a balletic leap the performer laid a trail of liquid at his feet and followed the move with a dramatic and truly beautiful lighting with a match. There he stood, triumphant with outstretched hands to the rise of applause from all around as the flames licked at his legs. Slowly he 'walked' through the fire and turned this way and that. The shouts from the crowd became deafening and eventually when the din had died down and the flames extinguished, the spectators began to exchange looks of awe and delight. But the two slender and very good looking men with their little dogs were no longer amongst them...