Fifty five, in no hurry, and content to wait a year for the right thing

The one advantage of being fifty five is that I have finally stopped being in a hurry. At thirty I wanted everything settled within a month. At fifty five I understand that the two arrangements that actually worked in my life both took about four months to become anything, and that the ones that started fast all ended fast.

Fifty five, the Bronx, twenty years in this. Six years with one woman and nine with another, and I am on good terms with both, which I mention because I think it says more about me than any description of what I like.

What I want now is to write to somebody for a season. Not to be tested, not to be strung along, simply to take the time it takes. If it becomes something, good. If we decide in November that it is not, I will have had a good autumn of correspondence and no complaint.

Beyond that: structure, duties, a house I am useful in. I cook well, I am handy, I have a car which is unusual here and turns out to solve a lot of problems.

What I do not want is anything that has to happen soon. If your post has urgency in it, we are not suited. And I am not interested in an arrangement built around occasional evenings, because I have done that and at my age I would rather have a Tuesday than an occasion.