Dear Ed:

I've only loved two boys in my whole life and you were one. Over the course of four years I told you almost everything. But I never told you I started going out with you to piss off my parents — I never expected to fall in love. I never told you your hands were always clammy but I grew to think they were beautiful. You were smart and funny and ambitious, but totally paralyzed with fear of fucking up and proving your father right. You were going to do independent comix, and after graduation started a collective whose first book got a rave in Factsheet Five. But you were scared. Now you do the inking on Aquaman, and I don't even know if you dream of anything bigger. You dumped me for a tiny, beautiful, Asian girl cellist, who a year later dumped you for a woman. I've never told you how much you still mean to me, even now that we barely speak. You got married last weekend, to a woman who bosses you around. You didn't tell me. Our old friends called me, speaking softly and kindly, to tell me about the wedding.