“People think we’re in love,” I said to her on a walk one day. And she said, “They’re right.” “You know what I mean,” I said. “What do you think love is anyway?” she said. “I guess I don’t know,” I said. “You know the best part—” she said, “walking around like this and feeling good about everything. If you missed the rest of it, I certainly wouldn’t cry for you.” So we went to the Museum of Modern Art for maybe the fiftieth time. I had been with Gregory for almost three years then, and was just a shade under twenty years old. I wasn’t a budding artist anymore. I was an employee of an artist,
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