Sixty three, thirty five years at this, and not remotely done

Two kinds of letter arrive when a woman my age posts. The first tells me at length how rare and wonderful it is to see somebody my age here, which is a compliment about a number. The second, and I say this without any coyness, is from men who want a mother, and the giveaway is always in the vocabulary rather than the request.

Sixty three, Manhattan, thirty five years leading. Four arrangements. The longest sixteen years, ended when he died in twenty nineteen, and I took a long time over that and am well out the other side.

What thirty five years has actually changed is my speed. I know within two letters now, where I used to give somebody half a year. I want considerably less than I did: one man, one evening, duties that run quietly in the background, and long stretches where nothing needs arranging at all.

I am not interested in teaching anybody, I am not interested in being anybody's proof that this can last, and I am definitely not interested in being asked how long I intend to keep going. As long as I like.

What I want is a man somewhere between forty and seventy who has done this before, has a life of his own, and wants a structure rather than a rescue. Nothing here is for hire and nothing ever has been in thirty five years, which is a sentence I have written more often in the last five years than in the previous thirty.