I had a happy little pansexual dream of a sensitive, intellectual partner who works as a chef and owns two golden retrievers and a blue bungalow. We meditate together, play chess, maybe join a book club. But whenever I retreat to that safe picture, Beck is standing outside the imaginary bungalow with his arms crossed, waiting for me. He refuses to move, rain or shine, until I climb out of a window at night and go to him.
