Michael and I had been together 7 1⁄2 years when I moved out in late 2006. We met at a bar just after Christmas 1998; I had seen Shakespeare in Love with a couple of friends, and I was feeling amorous, looking for Joseph Fiennes. Michael hit on one of my friends first, but the two didn’t click, so Michael settled for me. That was one of our most reliable stories to tell friends over dinner. It never ceased to get the table laughing, Michael and me most of all, because it was preposterous to think we wouldn’t have ended up together. We were so happy, our love unshakable. I went home with Michael the night we met, and figuratively speaking, I didn’t leave again for those 7 1⁄2 years. The breakup sucked, the more so because it was no one’s fault. Our relationship had begun to suffer the inanition of many marriages at seven years.
