I loved his body in tight black motorcycle leathers. I loved his keen mind and tender heart. He smelled like All-Spice deodorant mixed with an acrid trace of two-cycle motorcycle oil. He broiled steak and baked potatoes,
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In 1967, Vic persuaded me to lie in a sleeping bag on the cold ground in March. We held each other while waves of green, yellow, and pink tinted the sky—a divine aurora borealis lightshow. It was
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On a bitter March afternoon after my Chinese government seminar at Cornell, I hurry down the hill toward Seneca Street. I stomp up the crooked wooden steps to Vic’s apartment, grateful to be out of the wind.
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