I think I had that winter phobia, whatever it's called, that brings on deep depression. But, elated as I was sharing my life with Theresa, the first two months of 1968 virtually flitted by. We were constantly on the go. We partied together, went to the movies and on double-dates. We even went to church together (yeah, I was going to mass once again). And, of course, we lay together. We made love in apartment building basements, stairway landings, meter rooms, wherever we could find warmth and privacy on those frigid New York nights. Sometimes while making out in my living room, our hormones whirring out of control, we'd do it right there on the floor. That was pretty risky business considering my parents were asleep in the doorless next room. That unhinged French door was still wide open, leaning uselessly against the bedroom wall. We'd talk on the phone for hours when we couldn't be together, but we lived for the times that we could. And that's why I felt like a deserter when I asked Theresa if she minded if I went to Donny Scully's bachelor party. You see, Donny had knocked up the super's daughter and they were going to have a shotgun wedding.
