first love, last rites

I went to Wellesley, he went to Yale. We lived & breathed Literature. He played the piano: Liszt & Chopin. I played records: Bowie & Bunnymen.

I was 18, he was 20 the day he asked me to marry him & I said yes, then he took me for a spin in his dad's Rolls down shady Connecticut lanes.

Once before it all went to hell he said: "Relationships are like two stones that wear each other down until both become smooth. My metaphor Fanny - you can't use it." "I won't," I promised, wishing I'd come up with it myself.

When we ran into each other again years later he was living in Spanish Harlem with his Puerto Rican girlfriend who turned him on to heroin, and that's when I took this picture.

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Yo cursaba Wellesley, él Yale. Nuestra vida era La Literatura. El tocaba el piano: Liszt y Chopin. Yo pasaba vinilos: Bowie y Bunnymen.

Yo tenía 18, él 20 el día que me pidió casamiento y yo le dije que sí y luego me paseó en el Rolls de su viejo por los caminos sombreados del Connecticut.

Una vez me dijo: "Las relaciones son como dos piedras puliendose entre sí hasta que cada una se vuelve lisa. Mi metáfora Fanny - no la podes usar." "No la voy a usar," le prometí, lamentando no haberla inventada yo misma.

Al rato se pudrió todo y cuando nos volvimos a cruzar años después él estaba viviendo en Harlem con su novia puertoriqueña quien lo inició a la heroina, y ahí le saqué esta foto.