shape in the fashion world?

Overheard in the coffee shop this morning, before I went to work:
"Yeah, according to Tom Ford, that supermodel is one of the most beautiful girls in the world."
"But she looks like a young man with breasts!"
"Um, you know Tom Ford is gay, right? Of course he'd go for that look. Most men in the fashion world are gay. Hence, most runway models have a masculine shape. Look at Gisele Bundchen. She has absolutely no shape. She looks like a stick. She might as well be a boy. And yet she's the number one supermodel in the world. Think about it."

It made me think, mostly about whether or not I completely agreed, especially with the finality of the "of course he'd go for that look" comment (I don't).
When I was in college, many of my dearest male friends were gay. But they loved curvy women, loved them. I have never had my butt so adored than when I was hanging out with my gay guy friends. They thought curvy women were goddesses, even "skinny-curvy" (yes, women can be very thin and curvy). However, if I were to ask them if the same were true in the fashion world, they would say things similar to the above conversation. Not so much stressing the "teenage boy" shape, but about the shape in general. Something about how the clothes needed to "hang" off the body. And that this tends to make women look like teenage boys. I do have to agree that many very thin runway models do tend to have a masculine look.
It's a slippery slope. It's almost offensive: "A majority of gay men in the fashion world want female models to look like boys." It's not necessarily true. But you hear it some in fashion circles. I've been friends with models and fashion designers alike; they are reluctant to say it, but they do say it. Despite the fact that most gay men I know would prefer a woman with curves. One of my college friends, who was a flaming queen, once said, "I love men. I love men's bodies. But women are not men. And I have no illusions. Women are women no matter what the shape. I'm just not gonna pretend that a woman looks like a man when she's so obviously female."

Saying that a gay male fashion designer thinks a female model who looks like a boy is one of the most beautiful models in the world? It just feels so much like blatant stereotyping, and I wish it didn't.

I'm probably offending someone right now. You can't please everyone.

shape in the fashion world?

Overheard in the coffee shop this morning, before I went to work:
"Yeah, according to Tom Ford, that supermodel is one of the most beautiful girls in the world."
"But she looks like a young man with breasts!"
"Um, you know Tom Ford is gay, right? Of course he'd go for that look. Most men in the fashion world are gay. Hence, most runway models have a masculine shape. Look at Gisele Bundchen. She has absolutely no shape. She looks like a stick. She might as well be a boy. And yet she's the number one supermodel in the world. Think about it."

It made me think, mostly about whether or not I completely agreed, especially with the finality of the "of course he'd go for that look" comment (I don't).
When I was in college, many of my dearest male friends were gay. But they loved curvy women, loved them. I have never had my butt so adored than when I was hanging out with my gay guy friends. They thought curvy women were goddesses, even "skinny-curvy" (yes, women can be very thin and curvy). However, if I were to ask them if the same were true in the fashion world, they would say things similar to the above conversation. Not so much stressing the "teenage boy" shape, but about the shape in general. Something about how the clothes needed to "hang" off the body. And that this tends to make women look like teenage boys. I do have to agree that many very thin runway models do tend to have a masculine look.
It's a slippery slope. It's almost offensive: "A majority of gay men in the fashion world want female models to look like boys." It's not necessarily true. But you hear it some in fashion circles. I've been friends with models and fashion designers alike; they are reluctant to say it, but they do say it. Despite the fact that most gay men I know would prefer a woman with curves. One of my college friends, who was a flaming queen, once said, "I love men. I love men's bodies. But women are not men. And I have no illusions. Women are women no matter what the shape. I'm just not gonna pretend that a woman looks like a man when she's so obviously female."

Saying that a gay male fashion designer thinks a female model who looks like a boy is one of the most beautiful models in the world? It just feels so much like blatant stereotyping, and I wish it didn't.

I'm probably offending someone right now. You can't please everyone.

shape in the fashion world?

Overheard in the coffee shop this morning, before I went to work:
"Yeah, according to Tom Ford, that supermodel is one of the most beautiful girls in the world."
"But she looks like a young man with breasts!"
"Um, you know Tom Ford is gay, right? Of course he'd go for that look. Most men in the fashion world are gay. Hence, most runway models have a masculine shape. Look at Gisele Bundchen. She has absolutely no shape. She looks like a stick. She might as well be a boy. And yet she's the number one supermodel in the world. Think about it."

It made me think, mostly about whether or not I completely agreed, especially with the finality of the "of course he'd go for that look" comment (I don't).
When I was in college, many of my dearest male friends were gay. But they loved curvy women, loved them. I have never had my butt so adored than when I was hanging out with my gay guy friends. They thought curvy women were goddesses, even "skinny-curvy" (yes, women can be very thin and curvy). However, if I were to ask them if the same were true in the fashion world, they would say things similar to the above conversation. Not so much stressing the "teenage boy" shape, but about the shape in general. Something about how the clothes needed to "hang" off the body. And that this tends to make women look like teenage boys. I do have to agree that many very thin runway models do tend to have a masculine look.
It's a slippery slope. It's almost offensive: "A majority of gay men in the fashion world want female models to look like boys." It's not necessarily true. But you hear it some in fashion circles. I've been friends with models and fashion designers alike; they are reluctant to say it, but they do say it. Despite the fact that most gay men I know would prefer a woman with curves. One of my college friends, who was a flaming queen, once said, "I love men. I love men's bodies. But women are not men. And I have no illusions. Women are women no matter what the shape. I'm just not gonna pretend that a woman looks like a man when she's so obviously female."

Saying that a gay male fashion designer thinks a female model who looks like a boy is one of the most beautiful models in the world? It just feels so much like blatant stereotyping, and I wish it didn't.

I'm probably offending someone right now. You can't please everyone.

article on work and lunch

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20265063/

Adam doesn't usually eat lunch at all during his work days. Sometimes he'll come home at seven in the evening, and dinner for me will be lunch for him or even breakfast. He's been worrying me. Then again, he is always on the road and can usually only grab a small snack that he can eat while driving. He says he's fine with it, that he's too busy to eat anyway. Sometimes if he's at a hotel or convention, he'll get a meal during breaks. But this doesn't happen as often as I'd like.
I can't help it; after years of anorexia, I feel hurt and afraid when someone I love actually chooses to not eat and instead throw themselves into work. He's perfectly healthy, but one of these days something is going to give.

article on work and lunch

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20265063/

Adam doesn't usually eat lunch at all during his work days. Sometimes he'll come home at seven in the evening, and dinner for me will be lunch for him or even breakfast. He's been worrying me. Then again, he is always on the road and can usually only grab a small snack that he can eat while driving. He says he's fine with it, that he's too busy to eat anyway. Sometimes if he's at a hotel or convention, he'll get a meal during breaks. But this doesn't happen as often as I'd like.
I can't help it; after years of anorexia, I feel hurt and afraid when someone I love actually chooses to not eat and instead throw themselves into work. He's perfectly healthy, but one of these days something is going to give.

article on work and lunch

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20265063/

Adam doesn't usually eat lunch at all during his work days. Sometimes he'll come home at seven in the evening, and dinner for me will be lunch for him or even breakfast. He's been worrying me. Then again, he is always on the road and can usually only grab a small snack that he can eat while driving. He says he's fine with it, that he's too busy to eat anyway. Sometimes if he's at a hotel or convention, he'll get a meal during breaks. But this doesn't happen as often as I'd like.
I can't help it; after years of anorexia, I feel hurt and afraid when someone I love actually chooses to not eat and instead throw themselves into work. He's perfectly healthy, but one of these days something is going to give.

on writing: character introduction and the fourth wall

I've just started on Charles de Lint's "Dreams Underfoot," and one of the very first character introductions triggered a response in me that has stayed long enough to require documenting.

When I write a story or novel, I don't like introducing a character by his or her full name, not unless another character addresses the person or thinks about the person's name. I find it jarring, an interruption; I want a little initial mystery about the character. I want to find out who he or she is gradually, over time, instead of right in the first paragraph. I know this seems odd, but bear with me.
I like to be dropped into the middle of the action on the first page. The action doesn't need to be literal. It could be a character sitting on a porch staring at a night sky. But I want to feel as though I should already know the character, that maybe I've just forgotten the last name and I'll be reminded shortly, through the character's own inner monologue or memories, or through another character's greeting or observation.
For example, "She sat quietly on the beach, watching the waves rush toward shore. They were cold, those waves, but Lucy didn't mind. She had a thick skin, like her father. Jim Stark had always taught his daughter to brave the cold and the heat, so naturally Lucy Stark grew up with no worries about getting her bare feet wet and cold."
That may not be the best example, but here we have a character who is obviously showing herself to the reader by herself, not by the author. She's remembering her father, whose last name was Stark. It would stand to reason that she, too, has the same surname and when she uses it during her inner monologue, it lends strength and pride to the name, instead of just, oh, here's Lucy Stark, sitting on the beach with her feet in the water.

In the first chapter of my novel, I go several pages before anyone gets a last name. In fact, the first surname is attached to a possessive of sorts: "The Morgan house was nestled in perpetually green grass and surrounded by trees." The house belongs to someone with the last name of Morgan. (I may change it to "the Morgan's house" or "the Morgan brothers' house" later). Then you find out who the house's owners are. And you are left to connect the obvious dots. The house belongs to a pair of brothers with the last name of Morgan, even though neither brother is actually introduced with that full name. Afterwards, another character supplies that fact through a memory.
Later on, the main character is writing in a journal, in which she names her best friend, the other female character, and the reader learns the other character's full name. The journal-writer supplies it through a monologue, though written in a journal. I don't actually reveal the name of my main character for several chapters, and only then through the inner monologues, memories, and observations of yet another character.
Also, appearance and demeanor. I like to space that out, too. I won't throw a full, complete description of a character at the reader in the first introductory paragraph. I'll first show the hair color, or the eye color, or complexion, or height, or body type, and then gradually, usually via another character's perception, I will show the reader who the character is. A slender red-haired woman with hazel eyes, or a curvacious woman with glittered crystal blue eyes, or a tall smiling man with golden brown eyes. And yet it's not an outright description like "this is what he looked like," more of a roundabout observation, like something you'd see out of the corner of your eye. Example: "She pushed her hair out of her eyes; her waist-length hair that loved getting in her face. People liked to compliment its deep red shine; she sometimes wished it could be less remarkable."
It's not giving everything away all at once; it's showing slowly. The reader sees that she has red hair down to her waist, and according to other characters' accounts, it's a beautiful color. That's it for now. More later.
I like to make the reader become one of the characters, see through a characters eyes; instead of be acknowledged as the reader. I don't like to break any fourth walls by outright telling the story. I'm not the narrator. The characters are.
I hope I make sense. It's my personal style, and naturally I don't knock any writers who do it differently. It's just how I like to do things.

Writers, I'd like to hear how you introduce your characters regularly. Do you give the reader the full description, full name and appearance all at once? Or do you draw it out, piece by piece, through the eyes and memories of other characters?

on writing: character introduction and the fourth wall

I've just started on Charles de Lint's "Dreams Underfoot," and one of the very first character introductions triggered a response in me that has stayed long enough to require documenting.

When I write a story or novel, I don't like introducing a character by his or her full name, not unless another character addresses the person or thinks about the person's name. I find it jarring, an interruption; I want a little initial mystery about the character. I want to find out who he or she is gradually, over time, instead of right in the first paragraph. I know this seems odd, but bear with me.
I like to be dropped into the middle of the action on the first page. The action doesn't need to be literal. It could be a character sitting on a porch staring at a night sky. But I want to feel as though I should already know the character, that maybe I've just forgotten the last name and I'll be reminded shortly, through the character's own inner monologue or memories, or through another character's greeting or observation.
For example, "She sat quietly on the beach, watching the waves rush toward shore. They were cold, those waves, but Lucy didn't mind. She had a thick skin, like her father. Jim Stark had always taught his daughter to brave the cold and the heat, so naturally Lucy Stark grew up with no worries about getting her bare feet wet and cold."
That may not be the best example, but here we have a character who is obviously showing herself to the reader by herself, not by the author. She's remembering her father, whose last name was Stark. It would stand to reason that she, too, has the same surname and when she uses it during her inner monologue, it lends strength and pride to the name, instead of just, oh, here's Lucy Stark, sitting on the beach with her feet in the water.

In the first chapter of my novel, I go several pages before anyone gets a last name. In fact, the first surname is attached to a possessive of sorts: "The Morgan house was nestled in perpetually green grass and surrounded by trees." The house belongs to someone with the last name of Morgan. (I may change it to "the Morgan's house" or "the Morgan brothers' house" later). Then you find out who the house's owners are. And you are left to connect the obvious dots. The house belongs to a pair of brothers with the last name of Morgan, even though neither brother is actually introduced with that full name. Afterwards, another character supplies that fact through a memory.
Later on, the main character is writing in a journal, in which she names her best friend, the other female character, and the reader learns the other character's full name. The journal-writer supplies it through a monologue, though written in a journal. I don't actually reveal the name of my main character for several chapters, and only then through the inner monologues, memories, and observations of yet another character.
Also, appearance and demeanor. I like to space that out, too. I won't throw a full, complete description of a character at the reader in the first introductory paragraph. I'll first show the hair color, or the eye color, or complexion, or height, or body type, and then gradually, usually via another character's perception, I will show the reader who the character is. A slender red-haired woman with hazel eyes, or a curvacious woman with glittered crystal blue eyes, or a tall smiling man with golden brown eyes. And yet it's not an outright description like "this is what he looked like," more of a roundabout observation, like something you'd see out of the corner of your eye. Example: "She pushed her hair out of her eyes; her waist-length hair that loved getting in her face. People liked to compliment its deep red shine; she sometimes wished it could be less remarkable."
It's not giving everything away all at once; it's showing slowly. The reader sees that she has red hair down to her waist, and according to other characters' accounts, it's a beautiful color. That's it for now. More later.
I like to make the reader become one of the characters, see through a characters eyes; instead of be acknowledged as the reader. I don't like to break any fourth walls by outright telling the story. I'm not the narrator. The characters are.
I hope I make sense. It's my personal style, and naturally I don't knock any writers who do it differently. It's just how I like to do things.

Writers, I'd like to hear how you introduce your characters regularly. Do you give the reader the full description, full name and appearance all at once? Or do you draw it out, piece by piece, through the eyes and memories of other characters?

on writing: character introduction and the fourth wall

I've just started on Charles de Lint's "Dreams Underfoot," and one of the very first character introductions triggered a response in me that has stayed long enough to require documenting.

When I write a story or novel, I don't like introducing a character by his or her full name, not unless another character addresses the person or thinks about the person's name. I find it jarring, an interruption; I want a little initial mystery about the character. I want to find out who he or she is gradually, over time, instead of right in the first paragraph. I know this seems odd, but bear with me.
I like to be dropped into the middle of the action on the first page. The action doesn't need to be literal. It could be a character sitting on a porch staring at a night sky. But I want to feel as though I should already know the character, that maybe I've just forgotten the last name and I'll be reminded shortly, through the character's own inner monologue or memories, or through another character's greeting or observation.
For example, "She sat quietly on the beach, watching the waves rush toward shore. They were cold, those waves, but Lucy didn't mind. She had a thick skin, like her father. Jim Stark had always taught his daughter to brave the cold and the heat, so naturally Lucy Stark grew up with no worries about getting her bare feet wet and cold."
That may not be the best example, but here we have a character who is obviously showing herself to the reader by herself, not by the author. She's remembering her father, whose last name was Stark. It would stand to reason that she, too, has the same surname and when she uses it during her inner monologue, it lends strength and pride to the name, instead of just, oh, here's Lucy Stark, sitting on the beach with her feet in the water.

In the first chapter of my novel, I go several pages before anyone gets a last name. In fact, the first surname is attached to a possessive of sorts: "The Morgan house was nestled in perpetually green grass and surrounded by trees." The house belongs to someone with the last name of Morgan. (I may change it to "the Morgan's house" or "the Morgan brothers' house" later). Then you find out who the house's owners are. And you are left to connect the obvious dots. The house belongs to a pair of brothers with the last name of Morgan, even though neither brother is actually introduced with that full name. Afterwards, another character supplies that fact through a memory.
Later on, the main character is writing in a journal, in which she names her best friend, the other female character, and the reader learns the other character's full name. The journal-writer supplies it through a monologue, though written in a journal. I don't actually reveal the name of my main character for several chapters, and only then through the inner monologues, memories, and observations of yet another character.
Also, appearance and demeanor. I like to space that out, too. I won't throw a full, complete description of a character at the reader in the first introductory paragraph. I'll first show the hair color, or the eye color, or complexion, or height, or body type, and then gradually, usually via another character's perception, I will show the reader who the character is. A slender red-haired woman with hazel eyes, or a curvacious woman with glittered crystal blue eyes, or a tall smiling man with golden brown eyes. And yet it's not an outright description like "this is what he looked like," more of a roundabout observation, like something you'd see out of the corner of your eye. Example: "She pushed her hair out of her eyes; her waist-length hair that loved getting in her face. People liked to compliment its deep red shine; she sometimes wished it could be less remarkable."
It's not giving everything away all at once; it's showing slowly. The reader sees that she has red hair down to her waist, and according to other characters' accounts, it's a beautiful color. That's it for now. More later.
I like to make the reader become one of the characters, see through a characters eyes; instead of be acknowledged as the reader. I don't like to break any fourth walls by outright telling the story. I'm not the narrator. The characters are.
I hope I make sense. It's my personal style, and naturally I don't knock any writers who do it differently. It's just how I like to do things.

Writers, I'd like to hear how you introduce your characters regularly. Do you give the reader the full description, full name and appearance all at once? Or do you draw it out, piece by piece, through the eyes and memories of other characters?

just remembering...

Snapshot, his memory:
He's telling me about one of the moments when he knew he was too far gone. He was in the basement of the old Ill Omen house, he says, lying on the couch that used to be there. Listening to Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" on repeat in the CD player, over and over and over. He played it, he says, for me, because of me. Because back then, he had not wanted to fall in love again, when his heart had been so shattered before; he had been hesitant to fall in love with me, because I was too tempting, I was too dangerous, he said, I had his heart in my hands without realizing; I had the power to destroy him or redeem him with a single word, or three. And I wouldn't know, he says, not until he told me. And it scared him. Because he was in love with me, and he knew deep down that this time would be it, would be done.
Snapshot, his memory:
We're on the phone, like all those other times, and it is late, and I need to get up early for classes in the morning. I tell him good night, and he tells me good night, and I hang up the phone. But he sits there, with the phone to his ear, and he listens for the dial tone. And he whispers in the dark, into the dial tone, into the places I can't hear, "I love you." And he whispers it every night again, into the silence, for three weeks, until finally he hears me say it, as if it had always been my words first. And when he finally gets to say it back to my ears, that's it. He is forever. He won't look back; all he can do is move forward, forward, through the weeks to our first kiss.
Snapshot, my memory:
I'm pacing the airport's gate, shaking and terrified and pale and worried; the plane was two hours late and is just now landing. My parents try and calm me, but I feel nauseated and jittery and I can't be calm. People start walking into the room, people from the plane, and I jump up and look and watch. "Is that him?" my mother asks, several times, and I say, "No, no, no..." too anxious to say anything more, my heart pounding and screaming; I can't handle any more waiting. The last person, so I think, is off the plane. And then one more walks into the room. He is tall, his shoulders are broad, he is wearing a teal collared shirt under a black vest, with black jeans, and round blue sunglasses, and even though I haven't seen him in six months except for a photograph, I know it's him. He's carrying a long white box under one arm. He stops and lowers his sunglasses with one finger, nervous scared smile, and I am running, I am running, I leap into his arms and he grabs me and lifts me off my feet with one arm and we hug and hug, and "Hi," he whispers, and "Hi," I whisper. And then I think I see his head turn toward mine, so I do the only thing I can, I kiss him. I kiss him and sparks ignite. I kiss him and he kisses me and I'm lost. I'm forever. And then we separate, and go to my parents, and he gives my mother the long white box. Later on, we'd open it to find a bunch of brilliantly colored wildflowers.
Snapshot, my memory:
Our first official date, the day before Thanksgiving 1999, the day after the airport kiss: We are walking along the Sag Harbor Long Wharf, hand in hand, carrying a bag which contains a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of freshly-made chocolate pudding from the Corner Deli. We are feeding each other spoonfuls on a bench overlooking the bay and the boats, as the sun begins to set. Breathing in the salt air, the peace of a village in autumn. Breathing In Love. Later, we drive home by the beach, watching the water turn slate bluish gray while the sun bled orange and red and pink and the sky was so clear we can almost see into the heart of everything.

When I look in your eyes, I see the heart of my everything, the beginning of my forever. My wonderful love.

just remembering...

Snapshot, his memory:
He's telling me about one of the moments when he knew he was too far gone. He was in the basement of the old Ill Omen house, he says, lying on the couch that used to be there. Listening to Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" on repeat in the CD player, over and over and over. He played it, he says, for me, because of me. Because back then, he had not wanted to fall in love again, when his heart had been so shattered before; he had been hesitant to fall in love with me, because I was too tempting, I was too dangerous, he said, I had his heart in my hands without realizing; I had the power to destroy him or redeem him with a single word, or three. And I wouldn't know, he says, not until he told me. And it scared him. Because he was in love with me, and he knew deep down that this time would be it, would be done.
Snapshot, his memory:
We're on the phone, like all those other times, and it is late, and I need to get up early for classes in the morning. I tell him good night, and he tells me good night, and I hang up the phone. But he sits there, with the phone to his ear, and he listens for the dial tone. And he whispers in the dark, into the dial tone, into the places I can't hear, "I love you." And he whispers it every night again, into the silence, for three weeks, until finally he hears me say it, as if it had always been my words first. And when he finally gets to say it back to my ears, that's it. He is forever. He won't look back; all he can do is move forward, forward, through the weeks to our first kiss.
Snapshot, my memory:
I'm pacing the airport's gate, shaking and terrified and pale and worried; the plane was two hours late and is just now landing. My parents try and calm me, but I feel nauseated and jittery and I can't be calm. People start walking into the room, people from the plane, and I jump up and look and watch. "Is that him?" my mother asks, several times, and I say, "No, no, no..." too anxious to say anything more, my heart pounding and screaming; I can't handle any more waiting. The last person, so I think, is off the plane. And then one more walks into the room. He is tall, his shoulders are broad, he is wearing a teal collared shirt under a black vest, with black jeans, and round blue sunglasses, and even though I haven't seen him in six months except for a photograph, I know it's him. He's carrying a long white box under one arm. He stops and lowers his sunglasses with one finger, nervous scared smile, and I am running, I am running, I leap into his arms and he grabs me and lifts me off my feet with one arm and we hug and hug, and "Hi," he whispers, and "Hi," I whisper. And then I think I see his head turn toward mine, so I do the only thing I can, I kiss him. I kiss him and sparks ignite. I kiss him and he kisses me and I'm lost. I'm forever. And then we separate, and go to my parents, and he gives my mother the long white box. Later on, we'd open it to find a bunch of brilliantly colored wildflowers.
Snapshot, my memory:
Our first official date, the day before Thanksgiving 1999, the day after the airport kiss: We are walking along the Sag Harbor Long Wharf, hand in hand, carrying a bag which contains a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of freshly-made chocolate pudding from the Corner Deli. We are feeding each other spoonfuls on a bench overlooking the bay and the boats, as the sun begins to set. Breathing in the salt air, the peace of a village in autumn. Breathing In Love. Later, we drive home by the beach, watching the water turn slate bluish gray while the sun bled orange and red and pink and the sky was so clear we can almost see into the heart of everything.

When I look in your eyes, I see the heart of my everything, the beginning of my forever. My wonderful love.

just remembering...

Snapshot, his memory:
He's telling me about one of the moments when he knew he was too far gone. He was in the basement of the old Ill Omen house, he says, lying on the couch that used to be there. Listening to Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" on repeat in the CD player, over and over and over. He played it, he says, for me, because of me. Because back then, he had not wanted to fall in love again, when his heart had been so shattered before; he had been hesitant to fall in love with me, because I was too tempting, I was too dangerous, he said, I had his heart in my hands without realizing; I had the power to destroy him or redeem him with a single word, or three. And I wouldn't know, he says, not until he told me. And it scared him. Because he was in love with me, and he knew deep down that this time would be it, would be done.
Snapshot, his memory:
We're on the phone, like all those other times, and it is late, and I need to get up early for classes in the morning. I tell him good night, and he tells me good night, and I hang up the phone. But he sits there, with the phone to his ear, and he listens for the dial tone. And he whispers in the dark, into the dial tone, into the places I can't hear, "I love you." And he whispers it every night again, into the silence, for three weeks, until finally he hears me say it, as if it had always been my words first. And when he finally gets to say it back to my ears, that's it. He is forever. He won't look back; all he can do is move forward, forward, through the weeks to our first kiss.
Snapshot, my memory:
I'm pacing the airport's gate, shaking and terrified and pale and worried; the plane was two hours late and is just now landing. My parents try and calm me, but I feel nauseated and jittery and I can't be calm. People start walking into the room, people from the plane, and I jump up and look and watch. "Is that him?" my mother asks, several times, and I say, "No, no, no..." too anxious to say anything more, my heart pounding and screaming; I can't handle any more waiting. The last person, so I think, is off the plane. And then one more walks into the room. He is tall, his shoulders are broad, he is wearing a teal collared shirt under a black vest, with black jeans, and round blue sunglasses, and even though I haven't seen him in six months except for a photograph, I know it's him. He's carrying a long white box under one arm. He stops and lowers his sunglasses with one finger, nervous scared smile, and I am running, I am running, I leap into his arms and he grabs me and lifts me off my feet with one arm and we hug and hug, and "Hi," he whispers, and "Hi," I whisper. And then I think I see his head turn toward mine, so I do the only thing I can, I kiss him. I kiss him and sparks ignite. I kiss him and he kisses me and I'm lost. I'm forever. And then we separate, and go to my parents, and he gives my mother the long white box. Later on, we'd open it to find a bunch of brilliantly colored wildflowers.
Snapshot, my memory:
Our first official date, the day before Thanksgiving 1999, the day after the airport kiss: We are walking along the Sag Harbor Long Wharf, hand in hand, carrying a bag which contains a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of freshly-made chocolate pudding from the Corner Deli. We are feeding each other spoonfuls on a bench overlooking the bay and the boats, as the sun begins to set. Breathing in the salt air, the peace of a village in autumn. Breathing In Love. Later, we drive home by the beach, watching the water turn slate bluish gray while the sun bled orange and red and pink and the sky was so clear we can almost see into the heart of everything.

When I look in your eyes, I see the heart of my everything, the beginning of my forever. My wonderful love.