He was a great man. He took me in when I was slumped against his door in the middle of the downpour night. He clothed me, showed me a new life and a new love. We skipped stones in Monet’s garden, walked along the Seine at dusk. There was the paper airplane incident. We laughed so giddily and so frequently I sometimes wondered if there was a time before this, or if there would be a time after. I hoped not. When he told me his stories he substituted my name in for all the characters. It was confusing.
How I wish I could return to those carefree simple times. Me and F. Scott Fitzgerald, living together as brothers.