Brava, Valentine

“Yes,” we answer in unison.

“I don’t think that’s healthy.” Mom frowns.

The last of the relatives have left with the last of the leftovers. June grabbed a cab after a parting whiskey shot. She has another party tonight in the East Village.

I finish the last of the dishes. I go to the table and blow out the candles, which have burned down to flat orange puddles in the holders.

I grab the last two ca

Gabriel has his feet up on the chaise, looking at the moon. I sit on the empty one beside him.

“Nobody ate the chestnuts,” Gabriel says.

“A lot of drama today. They forgot.” I hand him a ca

“I can’t. I got no room.”

I put the ca

“You prepared a beautiful meal,” I say.

“It didn’t matter. It went down like gruel.”

“How about that Kathleen sending an e-mail?”

“I never liked that redheaded hussy,” Gabriel says. “Not for a second.”

“I was surprised she’d send an e-mail like that.”

“Then you need a wake-up call. She wanted Pamela to find it. Holidays suck for mistresses. They’re sitting home scheming! There they are: all alone in the dark with their black thoughts and a Morton’s pot pie. And instead of going out and finding an available man, they want to wreck the holidays for the married ones. In the old days, they did drive-bys. My mother called the police one Christmas when my father’s mistress cruised by for the fiftieth time before the manicotti. Now, all these home wreckers have to do is e-mail. Saves on gas, I guess.”

“Your father cheated too?”

“Of course.”

“Is it inevitable?”

“There’s a study. Around sixty percent of all people in long-term relationships stray. Except, I don’t go by those statistics. They say five percent of all people are gay, but that number can’t be right-if you count up the hairdressers alone, you got at least fifteen percent of the general population right there. I think men have a hard time being men. Straight men at least.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Women give men a place to go. A man is a useless piece of equipment whose purpose is lost if it were not for women.”

“What are you talking about?”

He nods, warming to his subject. “It’s like this. A man might go out and get a job, but only for someplace to go during the day. And he’s only working that job to give the money to his wife. And then, if he does really well…to buy her good jewelry. And only because she asks for it. Diamonds aren’t a man’s idea. The first woman sent the first man into a hole in the ground, and when he emerged with the first diamond she looked at it and said, ‘It’s too small. Dig farther.’ Men are not ambitious outside of their desire to impress women. A woman, in return, gives a man’s life shape. A context. A place to go. It’s very simple.”

“You mean that every man is motivated not by ambition or power or wealth, but because he wants to please a woman?”

“Absolutely. Think about it. A straight man doesn’t care about surroundings, or good food-unless we’re talking Mario Batali or Tom Colicchio, but they’re an anomaly. No, women are the inspiration behind anything that has ever been invented, made, or built by men. Women, in fact, rule the world because of that power, and I’ve always thought it a waste that they don’t see that.”

If Gabriel is right, and I think he could be, I might still have a chance with Gianluca. If he lives to love and please a woman, why not me?

Gabriel continues, “If there were more of us, gay men would rule the world, because we have it all. We know how to create a place to go, and we like being in it. We’re homebodies with flair. We are. But we’re outnumbered by the straights. No, this life…is all about women. When you girls say it’s a man’s world-well, if only that were true! I’d be loving it. You ladies should own your power. You need to pick up the ball and run with it. I only use that analogy because of all the football talk at di

“Sorry about that. The men in my family mistook your lovely table for a tailgater.”

“If only straight men could take that passion they have for a ball flying through the air, and apply it to making the world better, they could fix global warming, ocean dumping, and mountaintop removal in the time it takes me to stuff a turkey.”

“Or make twenty individual soufflés.”

“I am handy, aren’t I?”

“Beyond.” I reach over and take Gabriel’s hand. We look up at the midnight blue sky.

“What’s to become of us, Valentine?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re thirty-five years old.”

“That’s not old,” I say.

“It’s not young either. Do you ever think about the future?”

“I try not to.”

“You live in a bubble.”

“I like my bubble. It’s blue and shiny. And you should know, you did the interior decorating.”

“So stay there.” Gabriel smiles. “It’s a gorgeous Tiepolo blue, and it works well with your skin tone.”

“Thanks.” I don’t have the heart to ruin Gabriel’s holiday by admitting that I spend a lot of time worrying about the future. Time is passing, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. Sometimes I flip through my sketchbook and remember places and times, the color of the afternoon sun on old bricks or the exact shade of red on a cardinal that landed on the bench in Hudson River Park while I was drawing, but in general, I’m amazed at how quickly the days fade in my memory. What will I remember about these days ten years from now? Will I agonize that I didn’t do enough to build a life with a man that loves me? Will I be like June, who knows how to party but likes to go home alone? “Gabe, I have an idea. I don’t want to get the number elevens between my eyes. Why don’t you worry about the future for both of us?”

“Not a problem. Once this economy turns, I’m going to start to save money, and I’m going to get rich. I’m going to plan for my retirement. I’m going to need a lot of cash. A gay man living on social security on a fixed income? I don’t think so. The only fixed item I want in my life is that North Star up there.” Gabriel points up to the sky, where small specks of silver peek through the blue. “No, I’m going to need cash that flows. I need a big budget-just for decorative lamps. I’ve got a plan. How about you? What are you going to do with the second half of your life?”

I think for a moment. When I’m on this roof, I feel anything is possible and I have since I was a child. I search the sky as far as I can see beyond the point where the Hudson River meets the Atlantic Ocean. The answer lies somewhere between here and there, the home I love and know, and the greater world beyond, which I’m not so sure of.

Finally I say, “I want to love a man who can be true.”

“Aim low, wouldja?”

I laugh. “That’s all I want. And one other thing. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Where am I go

“I don’t know. Away. Somewhere. My family is crazy.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Gabriel assures me.

The autumn moon slips behind tufts of low, gray clouds. “A storm is rolling in,” I say. And while I can’t be sure about the weather, somehow, when I say it aloud, it sounds like a promise.