You could fill entire football stadiums with all the things that I don't know. I don't know how to make paella. I don't know how to do algebra or iron pleats or ski. I don't know how to sing on key, accept a compliment, interact at a party consisting of more than eight people or kill a lobster…which brings us back to my paella issues.
But I do know a thing or two about men…
Okay, not two, but there is this one little thing about men that I do know with crystal clarity: I know what I like.
Needless to say, what I like, love and cherish above all others is my own man, Johannes Labusch. He was a friend for quite a while, and then 14 years ago this month we went to a museum together and I stood there looking at a Giacometti sculpture through his faded denim gray eyes, and he was so funny, so astute, so sexy, so unpretentious that somewhere between the cafe and the gift shop, I was a goner. And (despite the fact that a mere 20 minutes ago we had an unbelievably irritating phone conversation) I still am.
But what if something were to happen to Johannes? I mean, I realize that spending most of the year working in Switzerland isn't exactly on par with spending most of the year working in Iraq, but things happen.
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