More from the old blog - I haven't told you about the Victorian house yet.

April of 1982. I get a letter from Andy. Ah......Andy.

Remember way back a couple of weeks when I said my ex and I moved into this big gingerbread Victorian house, he in one bedroom, I in another, he dating one of my best friends, I dating the guy who lived in the back apartment? Andy lived in the back apartment.

Andy was a Vietnam veteran. A biker without a bike. A bartender. Tall, wiry, kinda funny lookin' in a handsome, sexy way, cool as all hell, utterly irresistable. At least, to me. After ten years of marriage to the perfect husband and father, I had the bad taste to fall for the bad boy. Not an uncommon story. It was because of Andy that I started smoking again. Oh - he didn't want me to, nothing like that. It was just, when you divorce the perfect husband and start dating biker bartenders, you start smoking again. Just goes with the territory.

Andy came to a Halloween party I threw - my first Samhain party, actually, giving it the Celtic pagan name. We danced to Janis Joplin. That was all she wrote. He used to creep up the stairs into my bedroom after work. One night, he wouldn't let me say anything at all. We made love, and he left. In January I went to England for a month, and he broke my heart with a waitress. A very nice waitress. I couldn't fault his taste.

This letter comes a few years later. He's left the waitress, and moved to Minneapolis, where he is getting some help with post traumatic stress, and for some reason began writing to me. "It is nice not being my own worst enemy for a change," he writes.

I hope he's still around somewhere, because