"​A Real Diary Entry"

One Sunday, I think I shall buy The Times and attempt to summon the past. It is that glorious month of Pride, at least in the city, though New Yorkers seem, at present, far more animated by the Knicks being in the NBA Finals. I could not care less about the Knicks—or, for that matter, any sports team. The spectacle of ordinary people roaring with devotion for millionaires already enjoying themselves, and paid obscenely well to do so, has never made much sense to me.

Joaquin comes and goes, and at times my house feels almost more his than mine. That is all right. He does, after all, bring me pleasure when I need it. We never seem able to keep away from one another for very long. There is something between us—what exactly, I cannot say, and perhaps it is of no consequence.

I have received an invitation to the Winter Garden to see the work of one of my favorite playwrights, Arthur Miller.

They are staging Death of a Salesman. Miller was once married to Marilyn Monroe, and everyone knows how deeply I care for her. What a woman—what radiance. She would have turned one hundred on June 1st, had she lived so long. In some strange way, I am glad she did not. I would not wish to disturb the image I carry of her.

I believe Miller was her third husband. As for Death of a Salesman, I remember finding it rather dull, though I am willing to give it another chance before seeing the revival on Broadway.
 
Meanwhile, in Peekskill, you realize there are straight couples—most of them, really—you could quite happily do without, except for Danni and Rosa, your favorite straight couple of all time: the kind of couple you aspire to be, though in a different way.

Today I liked how they could be in front of me without shame—the way Danni’s gentle fingers ran across Rosa’s back, the way she sat on his lap and held him there, and the way we all smiled.

​It felt oddly exciting
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