My first beau in London after my transfer there. The relationship lasted less than two years, but I had to try so hard in that short time that it felt like much longer. He had an unusually sweet singing voice, and favored Italian art songs and Henry Purcell. Particularly Purcell in the morning, and particularly the charming one that goes, “If music be the food of love sing on, sing on, sing on, sing on till I am fill’d, am fill’d with joy.” His voice rang like bells against the bathroom tile. Food is the food of love, though, not music. I’ve known that ever since Mary spoiled me with snacks between meals. Ever since Laszlo came up the stairs with his arms around a bag of groceries before throwing his arms around me instead. So when it came to interacting with John’s two little children, I cooked. When I arrived in Munich I couldn’t boil an egg, and in Paris I bought pâté and cheese and salad and bread and that was dinner.
