When we were still in love, we used to buy a bag of Wonder bread at the Rite-Aid on Atlantic Avenue, and take it up to Bryant Park. Then we'd throw crumbs at the passerby's, laughing.
When NPR got too depressing, we'd lie with our backs pressed into the dirty carpet of his sixth floor walk-up, and sing in our goofiest, deepest voices.
The first story I ever told him was about my mother.
"When I was eight, I asked for a rosary to hang on my mirror. I was reading some novel about a deeply religious fifteen year old, who prayed every morning and evening in her prayer closet. I prepared a shrine in my bedroom closet, and then asked my mother for the rosary. She refused, saying Catholics had a much harder time getting into heaven than Protestants.
God, what a fucking mess.
So, I used pink pony beads and hid them under my pillow each night."
He laughed a lot at that, and the next day, he bought me a rosary on Fulton Street. We put each other to sleep that night, alternating between "Hail Mary, full of grace," and "Now I lay me down to sleep," the two chants of our childhoods.
"I wish I knew you when we were kids," he often whispered.