In 1975 when we met, there was no same-sex marriage, no such thing as civil unions.  Yet, somehow, against all the odds, Georgia and I managed to live together as partners for almost thirty years.  Our lives grew entwined, like wild vines, each needing the other to survive.  A day without her laughter, questioning every move I made, shaking her head as if to say, “…not again” and just being in my way was something I could not imagine living without.  It had been wonderful, fun, sad, and I had only imagined, everlasting. 

Georgia gave me the strength to work hard while I was on the job, and she was waiting for me every evening when I returned home, whether it was early or late.  We shared everything…the good times and the bad, and when the doctors told us she was dying, we held on to every moment we had left, as tightly as we had held on to each other throughout the years.  As she fought for her last breath, I placed my hand over her heart, and upon her death, my life came to a halt. 

She left me, lost and alone, wondering, but not really caring, where, how, or even if my life would go on. How does anyone explain what it’s like coming back into an empty house filled with only loneliness and memories?

Shortly after Georgia’s funeral, I quit my job of fourteen years as a police detective. I found I couldn’t concentrate on my work, and although I didn’t care that my job put me in danger, I came to realize that my lack of concentration put both my colleagues and my partner at risk.  

So I left the force, and after a while decided to open an antique shop. It was something Georgia and I had talked about doing one day…and then there were no more talks and no more days. 

I admit the shop ended up being closed more often than it was open.  It was easy to hang out a sign that said I was out at an auction or away at a trade show.  Slowly, I withdrew into myself and shut out the world, staying alone in my loft above the shop.  Well, at least, that’s what I tried to do. 

My partner on the police force had been Detective Bobbie Kerry, and, as much as I tried, she wouldn’t allow me to throw myself into despair. She called everyday.  She knocked on my door several times a week, and she was, generally speaking, a pain in my ass.  She was heavy-set, a heavy smoker, had sandy-brown hair with green eyes, and was always eating junk food.  She was a sloppy dresser, the worst record-keeper in history, an expert shooter, close to her twenty-year retirement, and, as it turned out, a great friend.

One morning, after many months of living this same empty pattern, I decided to have breakfast at a local diner.  There, I met Elizabeth, and I came to believe that I had been given that rare second chance for happiness that few people ever get.  

The remorse I was still feeling about Georgia kept me from taking the step to move ahead, but Bobbie reminded me about the many times Georgia had said that after she was gone she wanted me to move on with my life. Then Bobbie would repeat how, the night she died, Georgia had hung on, struggling for each breath, waiting for me to promise that I wouldn’t hide from living and that I’d share my life with someone else when the time was right.  Although I hated Bobbie for it at first, I realized that she helped me by giving me the support I desired and the kick in the butt I needed to take that first step and ask Elizabeth out. 

That morning at the diner, I knew I was ready to live again, and in my heart of hearts I was sure that I had met the woman who would become my life partner.  Elizabeth.  The woman whom I loved from the first time I spotted her, and the woman who made my heart beat again.  

But life has a way of kicking you in the teeth.

Things soon got in the way, and I walked away from her, leaving both questions and answers.  My heart would never be the same, and my life would take some strange turns.  Once again, my life turned dark if not black, and if it wasn’t for my friend Bobbie, I might have ended up…well...I guess we’ll never know, will we?