The True Friend

It was the 2010s. I was living with my boyfriend in the heart of Manhattan, on 11th between University and 5th, and our elevator opened directly into the loft we had never truly started to decorate. 

I was well-traveled and well-dressed and well-perceived in the New York society, but that society remained an impervious mystery to me, and I think in so many ways it still does.

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One day, a journalist at The New York Times phoned. She wanted to write a piece about me. I immediately said yes. I don’t remember if I knew yet that saying yes to a story in The New York Times should come with equal elation as it does worry. 

The New York Times is not in the habit of revealing what the point of view of the story is. It could be praise, it could be a portrait in light and shadows, or it could be a character assassination. 

You just do it and hope for the best.

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I met the journalist and loved her immediately. So much so that I still, to this day, remember the texture of her presence. I’ve always ached…