When I heard about Tim’s death everything came rushing back. Forty-five years old, gym body, pretty face, life in New York. He’d been waiting in line. I didn’t know him well, but what little I’d heard was all too familiar.
He and his lover, Paul, met at a leather bar, had what I’d always assumed was an open relationship, and traveled back and forth from South Beach to Chelsea. It made more sense when I remembered they’d just taken an extended vacation in Europe and planned to leave Manhattan for a while; East Hampton would be their "temporary home." I’d almost forgotten about that closet-sickness tale.