Before he was promoted and took a job in New York City, Patrick was my dad's supervisor. My dad thought the world of him and since I thought the world of my dad, I paid attention when he talked about Patrick. All my first impressions of him came from my dad.
Through my dad's eyes I knew he was an intelligent and talented police officer. More than once my dad remarked on how clever he was, or how he never let his temper rise. I also knew he was intense, a kind of tough guy nobody messed with and everyone respected.
The first time I met him he'd terrified me. He had seemed like a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested with a deep, resonate voice. His close-cropped, grey hair had made him look slightly severe, and when we were introduced he'd fixed me with a penetrating gaze that left me almost certain he'd read my thoughts.
But he'd charmed me too. His eyes, though intense, were a soft, powder blue and he'd talked to me differently than other grown-ups did. The other men in the police station where my dad worked teased me good-naturedly and called me 'cutie', more or less dismissing me, though not unkindly. Patrick, on the other hand, asked questions I wanted to answer, deeper questions that had made me stop and think before I replied. And he'd listened attentively when I answered. He'd impressed me so much I found myself wanting to please him, part out of fear and part out of admiration.
When I told him I wanted to go to art school he'd smiled. "You'll have to come visit me when I move back to New York," he'd said, "and spend a few days in the museums. I think you'd do well in Manhattan and there are quite a few good schools you could look into."
It had given me a secret thrill when he'd said that. My parents were less than enthusiastic about my interest in art school (they would've preferred a more practical career path) so his encouragement had gone straight to my heart, mixing attraction with the admiration and fear I felt.
I begged and begged my parents to take me to New York and finally, after I'd either convinced them or worn them down, they consented and planned a long weekend trip. You can only hope to see a small slice of New York in three days but by the end of that weekend I'd seen enough to know I wanted to live there.
The last day we were there we had lunch with a couple of my parents' friends, including Patrick. I was nervous in his presence but I enjoyed studying him when he wasn't looking. He was intense but warm and I felt drawn to him despite my nervousness.
My parents' friends had invited them to see a play that night. I'd been invited too but was totally uninterested in going. There were so many things I still wanted to do in the city. I refrained from whining but inside I was frustrated I'd have to spend last night in New York at a play instead of looking at art.
To my delight, Patrick came to my rescue. He offered to take me wherever I wanted while my parents were at the play. My heart had beaten so fast while they decided and in the end when they'd agreed and worked out the details, I was filled with a great rush of affection for Patrick.
I remember that evening in a sort of haze; I was delighted and entranced by everything I saw. So many famous paintings and sculptures! And I'd found Patrick less scary and a lot more interesting than I thought I would. He still made me nervous, his penetrating stare was unnerving to say the least, but he knew a lot about art and New York so my opinion of him only got better and better as the night went on.
He'd taken an interest in my hope to go to art school and encouraged me to pursue it, assuring me my parents would come around when they saw how much I wanted it.
"If I can put in a good word to your dad, I will," he'd said.
A few weeks after that trip Patrick sent me an e-mail with information about Parson's School of Art. He'd actually sent it to my dad and asked him to forward it to me since he didn't have my address. Looking back now I think part of his intention was to emphasize to my dad how important going to art school in New York was to me. I'm guessing he knew my dad respected his opinion so he gave it, indirectly.
The e-mail had given contact information for a painting teacher there who Patrick said he knew and he'd encouraged me to call her to get some pointers on preparing my portfolio. Finally, it had ended with good luck wishes and an offer to help again if I needed it and though I'm sure he meant it casually, I took that offer to heart.
Not long after his first e-mail arrived, I replied. It was just a simple thank you note but it became the first of many messages we exchanged that next year.
Nothing in our e-mails was suggestive or romantic but they became more frequent and more personal until, after I was accepted to Parson's and started making plans to move to Manhattan, we were in touch on an almost daily basis. My stomach did a little flip each time I saw his name in my inbox. I knew I should have thought of him as an uncle or mentor but I hadn't, I'd begun to think of him with a vague but persistent feeling of arousal.
It took me a few weeks to find time to see Patrick after I'd moved into my dorm room. I was barely keeping up with the busy class schedule and orientation events, but I still e-mailed him, almost every night. I'd go to bed with thoughts of him in my head, thoughts that inevitably became sexual fantasies. When we finally met up I was so nervous he'd know how I'd been thinking about him. He had that focused gaze that made it seem like he could read my mind. But the lunch we'd had was pleasant and, after a while I'd relaxed. I left feeling slightly drunk with giddiness and excited to have another date with him in a couple of weeks. At least, I'd allowed myself to think of it as a date.
Over the next few months we spent a lot of time together. We went to movies and gallery openings, browsed bookstores, and sat talking late into the night at diners and cafés. Frequently we'd go to The Met and roam around for an hour, visiting a different collection each time. My feelings for him intensified each time: I felt it as I studied his face, the shape of his jaw and mouth; I felt it each time he'd smiled at me, creasing the delicate fan of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes; and I felt it when his knee bumped mine under the table. It was like a live current running through me.
At first I hadn't thought he felt anything for me. His face was often difficult to read but I'd watched it carefully, looking for signs that he felt something. The first sign I got wasn't written on his face, though.
