I KNOW HIM BEST
There are a lot of people who know my partner, David Starsky. Starsky is the type of person who just seems to make friends without even trying. I guess it's because people feel comfortable around him. The people who are closest to him, the ones who are privileged enough to earn his trust and his friendship, think they know him, but nobody knows him as well as I do. One day, while sitting in a hospital room waiting, I wrote down all the things I knew about my partner that nobody else knows.
His mother gave him the rings that he wears on his left pinky the day he left New York. They belonged to his father who was murdered when he was just thirteen. He died in Starsky's arms.
He's a lefty but he can use his right hand almost as effectively when he needs to. He's a crack shot with either hand.
Considering his preference for junk food, most people would be surprised to learn that Starsky is actually a good cook. He can make fried chicken that makes your mouth water and he knows how to make all the traditional Jewish dishes that his mother used to cook when he was growing up.
His hair is thick and soft and his curls are natural. He conditions his hair regularly and gets it cut at a beauty saloon.
He served eighteen months in Viet Nam and spent almost three months as a POW. He was a sniper and was assigned to a Special Forces unit.
He plays the guitar and has a deep, baritone singing voice. He taught himself to play when he was a teenager. He has a natural sense of rhythm and timing. He moves like a cat, graceful and sleek. And he has a strut that everybody notices immediately.
His preference for tight jeans comes from when he was a kid and had to wear hand-me downs from his older cousins that were usually too big and baggy.
His mother, and his Aunt Rosie, taught him how to cook, clean and sew. He also took Home Ec in high school so he could meet girls. His Uncle Al taught him how to work on cars and tear apart engines.
Raised in a rough neighborhood in Brooklyn until he was thirteen, he learned how to hot wire a car, shoplift, and how to fight down and dirty with the best of them. He also learned how to charm the ladies, young and old.
He's more intelligent than most people give him credit for and he is mostly self-educated. He reads constantly, everything from the newspaper to poetry. He's even written a couple of songs but nobody's ever heard them but me.
Once, after he was shot during a hostage situation, he learned how to do macramé to help him regain the mobility and flexibility in his hands.
He doesn't care much for vegetables and the only way he will eat them without complaining is on pizza, in Chinese food or in a pot roast.
He is an excellent photographer with an eye for detail and has even taken some pictures at crime scenes for the department a few times.
His paternal grandparents and most of his father's relatives died in a concentration camp during the holocaust. His father's parents sent him to America with a family friend to get him out of the country before the war escalated.
Besides the two moles on his face, he also has one on his left inner thigh. And he has a strawberry birthmark on the back of his right knee.
He hates having his feet covered and sleeps with them sticking out from under the covers.
He loves to kiss and he loves to cuddle. He also likes to talk after, before and during sex.
We have been lovers for two years, three months, one week, four days, six hours and twenty-three minutes.
And there's one more thing I know that nobody else knows about my partner. After taking five bullets to the chest, abdomen and back….he's going to live. And, to me, that's all that matters. He'll be coming home to me and I'll no longer be alone.