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“Wait. Let me just finish this, first. Then, I’ll give you my undivided attention.”

I don’t want heaven without you, Rob. So, I wait for him, and I give him my undivided attention. And, where he is sitting, I can see he is hard at work. He is focused and beautiful. And I am so glad I wrote to him, even though I had my own misgivings about this whole secret project that we were going to work on together. You only had to be in his presence for less than five minutes, well, for me, anyway, to see that he was going to be absolutely perfect in bed. He would know exactly how to touch me. He would wait for me. And they don’t usually do that, do they? He made me forget about the years of mental cruelty by my aunts and my mother and my beautiful, beautiful sister, whom I looked nothing like. Rob did not care how I wore my hair. He loved to fuck. He was a fuck machine. He was the perfect fuck machine, and when you told him to stop, he didn’t. He pleasured you first. He made you come first. He always left in the morning on another story. I never knew when I would see him again. Not married, yet, an aunt would say in passing. A comment I knew that they knew irked me. Shame. She’s waiting for the perfect man. They would laugh at me. At 40, I still had not married. I still didn’t have children. I was literally waiting, waiting, waiting for Rob to walk through the door. He never did. He would always call first. I knew it would be serious. I would do my dance. Tell him to come on over. I would cook for him. That really was enough for me. What would I do with this manic-depressive around me all the time, anyway? What would he do with little manic-depressive me? I had him pegged the moment I met him. He had me the first moment he saw me. And then, that moment passed, and it was years before we were actually ready for each other. Gosh, how I love him. I love him still. Even after all these years. Oh, eventually he did marry. I was too old by then to have any children. I told him what we both wanted to hear. No worries. I know exactly what this is, what this party is, what this game is, what this psychology and foreplay at work here are. Rob, live. You will live forever in the eyes of your girls. We know who we are. We love you, anyway. Forgive me. Forgive me, friend, lover.

He smiled at me. That was enough for me. I didn’t ask him any questions. I was quiet and sweet and attentive. I would make him tea, and he would turn to look at me as if I had just made him orgasm. Poor man. Did nobody love him, or want him, when he was a child, like me? All my life, I just wanted to feel special, and wanted, and loved, and when he was in my arms that first time, he gave all of himself to me. I remember thoughts, passing thoughts. They come like that winter in Johannesburg when I was flat broke, and everybody around me was falling in love with me, and I wanted no one; I kept my distance. It was the winter of my discontent. Either Rob knew that, or instinct told him. I was damaged beyond repair. I didn’t even have to say it. I didn’t have to say much in front of him. This made me happy. I didn’t have to put on an act. You have no rival, Rob. You never did. You are always close to me, when I’m being held by another father substitute. Perhaps, that is all you were to me. Just another father substitute. I remember every turn of your head. I remember every laugh and smile. When you didn’t want me around to see the real you, when you were with other women, I left. I knew I was yours. You were, in a sense, mine. I loved you. I loved you. I love you. I will still love you. I think of your code. How good you gave head. But that was important to you. To be loved. You will be loved. Always. By me. It is enough to know now that you are the love of my life. I listen to eighties music now. I am happy. I want you to know that. Every choice I made was mine to make. You were my choice lover boy. You were my friend. You were my best friend. You were my lover, once. Once. Everything is alright in my world again. When I read your books. Your wonderful, wonderful books. I read your obituary over and over again. You’re not here to hold me, anymore. So, I take the pills to numb the pain. Look at me. I am the picture of health. You’re off somewhere, now. In heaven, I am sure. While I am in hell. Reliving youth in an old woman’s body. You’re surrounded by your grandchildren. I have no grandchildren. You have no equal. You have no equal. You were 20, and I was 40. What was the attraction, I wanted to ask you, but I never did. I’m dying, now. In the hospice. Alone. With no one at my side. It was always like that. Maybe that is why you chose me. You knew it would be impossible to love me.

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