âThe first time I met Jack, I thought to myself: âHereâs a gay guy whoâs not cynical, whoâs not sarcastic, who enjoys life.â He had so much energy. He was a fifth grade teacher and heâd always get so excited when he talked about his work. Heâd produce these plays where heâd let the kids choose their own characters. Heâd spend hours writing out their dialogue. And then Iâd pretend to be one of the fathers and go sit in the audience. It was so fun. We had so much fun together. But the whole time we were dating, there was always part of me that thought I could do better. I was a fancy lawyer. Jack never seemed âcool enoughâ for me. And so I left him for a gorgeous twenty-one year old. Jack and I remained friends. We even continued living together. But his therapist told him never to date me again. So he dated other people. And he got sick. Both of us got sick, but Jack was the one who died. And he might have lived if I hadnât been such a bad person. If heâd been âenoughâ for me, heâd never have gotten HIV. The funny thing isâ Iâd grown up thinking that Iâd never be loved. Then a wonderful person loved me. And I left him to have sex with somebody who wasnât a wonderful person. Jack died thirty years ago. I dream about him almost every night. It always feels good to see him alive. For a moment, I donât have to blame myself for his death. I usually ask him for forgiveness. And some nights he forgives me. But other nights he doesnât.â
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