Day 28 - The Arrow was dead on.

On March 17, 1981, a man walked into Bankers Trust Company at 280 Park Ave in NYC for an interview. Two interviews, in fact; one on the 6th floor and the other on the 8th (my floor). He had sandy brown hair and wore a camel colored wool coat, with deep pockets as I would learn in the coming year. He carried an old fashioned valise, borrowed as I would later discover.

I was immediately attracted to this innocent with a reddish brown beard.

With a smile, he said he was here for an interview.  I got up and offered to take his coat to hang it in the closet. He smiled, declined politely asking where he could hang his own coat.  Even at that young age of 23, I had to have my own way and we had a brief tug of war. At least I think we did, because just then - Cupid shot his arrow.

It would be a Monday when this man asked what I had done over the weekend.  Wanting to seem very available, I told him "Nothing."  A few minutes later, my future maid of honor walked in saying "I was calling you all weekend, where were you?"  Busted.  Did he hear her? I did not know as he was deep in thought, typing on a CRT.

On a Friday night sometime around the beginning of 1982, a midnight bowling event was being held in the Bronx.  Several BTCo friends were going.  The day before, this man offered for me to stay over (on the pullout sofa) for convenience.  I said "no thank you."  The next day, I showed up with an overnight bag as I had changed my mind. I did not know then, but this man went home at lunchtime to clean. It was not possible in that short amount of time.

When I went to his 3rd floor apartment on 53rd & 8th, I met his college roommate, our future best man. His future wife lived there too.  Soon after I arrived, I began washing dishes as every dish was out (with dried food attached).  It was a tiny "row" kitchen with a wide counter that opened to the living room.  We both cleaned and it was done in no time.  Teamwork, a good trait.

After a fun evening of bowling in the dark with friends, we took a taxi back to this man's Manhattan apartment. On the way, I rested my head on this man's shoulder.  What did he think?  To this day, I never asked.

On my next visit to this man's apartment, it was spotless.  I was surprised and impressed. This man cooked a wonderful dish of Chicken Kiev.  Cooking, another good trait.

On April 20, 1985, sitting in a limo with smoked windows, I spied on this man in his blue suit as he walked across the street; smiling as he met his friends in front of the church.  He was happy and I knew then that this was right.

Years later, I am to learn about this man.

This man is a bit of a loner. This man needs space. This man needs time in the morning to fully wake.  These things are not found in India.  This man misses the farm; the spaciousness of our home; his guitar barn; the view of the lake and woods.  This man forfeits all this, for me.

Sometimes when I cry at night it is because my heart is overwhelmed with the love this man has for me. He thinks I cry because of something he has said.  This is sometimes true, but more often from his true love for me.

Now, he knows.