What Separates Lovers From Friends.

Everything was changing.

The roommate and I had picked up a third friend and started apartment hunting with a vengeance. If there was a three bedroom apartment available in Williamsburg, Carroll Gardens or Park Slope, we had seen it. Finally, we found the apartment of our dreams in the heart of hipster Williamsburg, on Havemeyer Street. The building had begun its life as a funeral parlor. It had evolved into a bar/club and then become privately owned. The traces of its past still remained in the cold marble floors that led up to the third floor. The bronze iron railing was intricately carved. A skylight at the top of the three-story building allowed light to pour in from above.

It was raining when we first went to see the place. The landlady opened the door for the Realtor, the roommate and I. I tried to be charming and affable. I already loved the building from the outside but was unsure of what to expect inside. The first floor was used as office/studio space for the landlords. An Australian terrier ran around our feet as we entered. The second floor was their apartment. Bookshelves lined the wall in front of the entrance to their place and I knew these were people I would like.

The third floor would belong to us if we got it. We entered into the living room. It was larger than I had expected. The floors had just been redone. The apartment had been freshly painted and all the original molding covered the walls. Two very nice windows looked out onto the street below. We turned to our left and into the narrow kitchen that contained all new stainless steel appliances and, wonder or wonders, a dish washer. I'd never used one in my life but I'd like to get acquainted with it. Then the bathroom, very nice. And two bedrooms. One bedroom very large with two nice windows overlooking the landlord's deck below and the rest of Williamsburg and the city beyond that. The bedroom next to that was smaller but still a nice size, with a closet and three windows. Although it was raining I could only imagine how much light the apartment would get on sunny days. The neighborhood lacked the ugly grey high rises that seemed to be popping up like pimples on an adolescent throughout the rest of the burg.

I wandered back through the kitchen and living room and peered into the room beyond. Two large, beautiful, original wooden doors separated the two rooms but, I thought, this isn't a real bedroom. It was a large room with four windows (!) but right on top of the living room. I turned to the real estate agent in a huff and said, "It's not a real three bedroom. You can't use that room as a bedroom. There's no privacy."

I was on the edge and losing faith in the New York City state of rental apartments. We had seen a place in Windsor Terrace that purported to be a third bedroom. It was a boxed room with no windows and someone had to walk through this room to get to their bedroom. Illegal and not an option. I was 29 years old. No one was walking through my bedroom in the middle of the night.

The real estate agent calmly looked at me and said, "Did you walk into the room?" I stammered and said, No very begrudgingly and walked in. Et voila! Beyond this room was yet another room. A real bedroom. With two windows and two closets. And it would fit a queen-sized bed and then some. This was a real three bedroom apartment. This was a place adults lived. This was the kind of place that people living in NYC dreamed of. This place felt safe. This place felt like home. We needed to live here. It was totally out of our price range but the real estate agent said he could negotiate it down for us. i trusted him.

We ran off because we had another appointment in Carroll Gardens but this place haunted me. I called the real estate agent to ask if we could come back with the third roommate to see the place again that night. He said, Yes. Of course. And so we put in an application for the place in Carroll Gardens, which was fine and then grabbed a cab back to Williamsburg.

On closer inspection, I wanted the apartment even more. I could imagine Ripley running from room to room. I could imagine the place alive with light and plants. Our third roommate loved it as much as we did and said that she could shoulder a larger share of the rent in exchange for the larger bedroom. We agreed. We told the real estate agent and a long process of negotiating and waiting began.

The landlords had never rented the space out before. Previously, one of the members of They Might Be Giants had lived there for years. Upon his vacating the place, extensive renovations had occurred. They were wary of anyone changing or damaging the property. Understandably. The last group of people who saw the apartment had been architecture students who had spoken of making changes, putting up walls, modernizing the place. The landlords had bristled and rejected them. Understandably.

They gave us their final price. And we, making various and many sacrifices, agreed. We had gotten it. It was with pleasure that I packed up my few belongings at 765 Grand Street and moved it over to Havemeyer Street. Ripley ran around like a mad dog from room to room, not knowing what to do with so much space. He made an immediate friend in Ruby, the Australian terrier, and her owners. Unpacking began.

The weekend we moved the Mormon was performing his solo show in Garrison, NY. The theatre is attached to the train station. It's a small, intimate space but one that I liked a lot. We had been there a few weeks ago to see his friend in a production of "Man of La Mancha." His friends were very...interesting. Married for years, a man and woman, the male half of the couple was gay. Identified himself as gay. But lived his life as a non-practicing homo and a straight man. The couple even had a son together. Whether the boy was conceived naturally, I chose not to ask. Let's call them Bob and Terry.

Bob and Terry were very close to the Mormon. They lived in a huge Victorian house in Cold Spring. The Mormon had met Bob in a Sexual Compulsives group. They were friendly, outgoing, fun and charming. Bob was definitely gay and I could feel his eyes lingering on me a little too long at almost every turn. It didn't make me uncomfortable. What made me uncomfortable was this relationship they had built together in which he, Bob, denied who he really was. And Terry seemed to have no problem with it. Yes, on the surface they seemed happy. But what lingered beneath all of this. It couldn't be easy. Nor could it have been fun.

They said they had heard a lot about me and wondered aloud why the Mormon hadn't introduced me to them sooner. They had met all of his past men. The Mormon replied, "Every time I bring someone around to meet you we break up shortly thereafter. I was waiting awhile." We had been dating a little over five months at this point.

On the car ride home I questioned this statement. Have they met a lot of guys? Have you brought a lot of other men up to Cold Spring?

"Yes."

In my head, I was the first. The only.

"But I like you best."

And I was sold again.

I dug a little deeper into the relationship between Bob and Terry. He was so matter-of-fact about it. "I think it's ideal. They have exactly what they want. They're a family. They have a child. They work together. They're happy."

But doesn't the fact that he's denying who he is bother you? Don't you think that means they don't really know each other?

"No. Sex is unimportant."

To who?

"It's not the only thing."

I didn't say it was but it's an important part of any relationship. Any marriage. It's what separates lovers from friends. They're not married. They're friends.

"I think it's perfect."

I found it hard to misread this warning sign but I chose not to continue the conversation at that time.

So, I was moving into my apartment. The Mormon was performing in Garrison and it would have to be a weekend without seeing each other. I felt badly that I couldn't be there to support him. Although I had seen his piece numerous times by now, it was always in workshop form in the safety of supportive friends and friends of friends from class. This would be his first time performing it alone, as it were. I wanted to be there. I couldn't be.

But I was happy to be home at last. This was the first time I had felt at home in an apartment in a long time. I was going to make myself comfortable.