"Did I ever tell you about the time I kissed Marilyn Monroe?"
How do you answer a question like that, a repeated question like that? It is obvious that it never happened, that he was never in the same town or state as MM, that he was in junior high when she died, that it's another story, fable, construction, myth, part of the long, twisting fable of his life, the life, times, and, most certainly, the Adventures of T. K. Smith, the alias he adopted at the age of 12, on the cusp of teen agedness, the precipice of puberty, the entry into unfamiliar urges, desires, inclinations passions (still his favorite word).
"Why T. K.?" I had asked innocently, before I knew what the power of a simple question ignited in him. "Why T. K. . . . and why 'Smith?' That's not your name."
"Exactly!" he'd shouted. (Yes, shouted!) "The anonymity of Smith, and introduced by T. K. . . . thank! Think! Subtle, I know, but . . ."
"So, you," I had said so long ago, as I tried to shift my snort to a tinkle of appreciation, "So you created yourself, your image, " I said, making it sound like a compliment, which he accepted with his characteristic grace, manifest as a quick bow, and that look in his eye of happiness, delight, pleasure, of simple joy which is there again to remind me again why I am still here with this eccentric old guy, who never kissed Marilyn Monroe or any other famous beauty.
And, to his credit, today was the first time he'd mentioned Marilyn in years. Forgotten all about her, I'd assumed, but just as I shake my head at her resurrection, he takes my hand, "You're still better than Marilyn. Want more coffee?"
I nod. What else to do? I nod, he gets the coffee, and we continue our long march to happily ever after.
Lovely!
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