We are planning our silver anniversary party. They mock us for our starry eyedness: ‘Perhaps you should express your love for each other through the medium of interpretive dance?’ Perhaps. With ribbons on sticks and a Richard Clayderman soundtrack. That would be an eye-opener.
We vividly remember the moment we met. You, struck by my busty theatricality. I, dazed in the face of your tawnily shy charisma. Both of us knowing that this would be more than a one-night thing. The universe squishing us together and then beating the hell out of us over the years so that, sometimes, we could only surface, gasp for air, look each other in the eye and then keep going.
We were soon an acknowledged couple. Far from exclusive – if jealousy had been a problem we would never have lasted this long – but everyone knew that we were each other’s chosen one.
We threw ourselves into threesomes, foursomes, orgies of conversation and exploration. We were non-negotiable.
We’ve never said ‘best friend.’ Except maybe drunk or on Christmas Day or behind each other’s backs. But we do say ‘chosen family.’ I am your most successful relationship and you are the love of my life. So far. Because we didn’t come this far to only come this far. But without blood, without a ring or a shared mortgage, we share a loyalty that has become a talisman of hope. And from where I’m standing it’s looking like til death do us part. So crank up the Richard Clayderman and fetch my leotard. I’m game if you are. I’m always game if you are.