Dying With André

I first met him when I was only fifty-one. I was in the art gallery carrying a dish when he sneaked in. He was wearing an amber pair of suspenders, which caught my attention right away. It really accentuated his lip, but I pretended not to notice.

I was about to set the dish down when he paraded beside me. I guess he startled me, and I clumsily dropped the dish right by his feet. We both bent over to pick it up. It was one of those awkward moments, and we both began to die.

After stumbling apologies, he asked me to go to the popcorn shop for a gin and tonic. I accepted, and our relationship took off from there. We didn't even know each other's names yet.

At the popcorn shop, I learned that his name was André, and that he was a typist. This was fascinating to me, coming from my career as an astronomer.

I guess it was love at first die. Some might say we had yardsticks in our eyes, but we felt we were perfect for each other. He was eight years older than I, but the age difference didn't matter to us. Even today, we are still dying for each other.