Two Pictures of Albert

1. Rainbow Towels

Here is Albert on the beach – black socks and yellow Crocs, two different rainbow towels wrapped around like blankets, one in orange and green and yellow stripes, the other in coalescing teardrops – blues, reds, and yellows. His hands folded over each other on his lap evoke a grandmother vibe, as does his gentle, direct smile, his hazel eyes more than adequately protected by sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat on this cloudy, cool day on the beach. What little skin he shows is Egyptian, though it’s his Egyptian blood that he brags is responsible for why he is always cold.

But what is responsible for how little he cares about what people will think? Today he’s wrapped in rainbow towels. Tonight he may never take off his coat at the restaurant. Tomorrow morning, in late July in Delaware, he may be wearing sheepskin gloves en route to the outlet malls.

Albert met me the Sunday before his moving truck arrived, so when we were dating, he was also looking for a church to join. We met at the Town Common near the Second Congregational Church, which had attracted him with its rainbow flag. There he was in an outfit I have secretly dubbed Fall Splendor—a two-piece with a quilt design in oversized autumn-colored patches.

I did not know him well enough at that point to pressure him to assimilate. I could only attempt to control my editorializing eyebrows and go into church with him as though no one were wearing anything unusual. The churchgoers did not bat an eye. They just seemed grateful to have a mixed-race gay couple in the congregation. Fall Splendor may actually have added to our cachet. Nevertheless, eventually I felt compelled to create a rule that has kept Fall Splendor consigned to Albert’s bureau: no pants with elastic waistbands in public.

2. The Pullover

Here is another picture of Albert at the edge of a boat with the ocean behind him. He is wearing the pullover we bought at Providence Pride.

It was our first Pride together. The day was warm enough, but the evening temperature plummeted, and both European and Egyptian bloodstreams were freezing. We ducked into a store seeking desperate-tourist layers—slim pickings as the other freezing tourists had gotten there first. The only sweatshirts left were matching Guatemalan pullovers in puke green with purple accents. We bought two. I was self-conscious the rest of the night about the matchy-matchy ugliness of it all. Albert thought the colors were great and thought the matchiness was a step for both of us toward deeper intimacy.

That was the first and only time I wore that pullover.

I took this photo of Albert on a discount Carnival Cruise ship that stole its decor from a 1980s music video. We had been planning to book a gay cruise that we found on the web, but we couldn’t get answers about why the announced dates didn’t align with the actual calendar.

Somehow, we ended up on this boat with its heteronormative dating games, its “Friends of Dorothy” LGBT socials, and its soft-serve machines with so many swarming children it felt like a reality TV competition. Afterwards Albert remembered it fondly, as he remembers everything, no matter how much we hated it at the time.

I eventually asked if I could give my pullover away. His feelings were not hurt; he was simply perplexed as to why I would give away perfectly good, extremely warm clothing under any circumstances. He lets clothing accumulate holes until someone, now his husband, finally insists it’s time for Goodwill, if Goodwill will take it.

Recently Albert started wearing his vomit pullover every day. I made subtle efforts to reintroduce his heavy-duty navy blue hooded sweatshirt into his rotation – the one that feels like a weighted blanket. The designers would probably be surprised to learn an educational consultant was wearing their jacket and not just snow shovelers and freezer warehouse guys. But my efforts would last for a day or so, and he would put his vomit pullover back on.

It took an episode of Married at First Sight to stop the madness. A man was asserting his right to tell the wife he met at the altar ten days ago what she could or could not do with her hair.

Of course, I joined Albert in denouncing such horrible behavior.

And then, with a cunning use of I-statements and self-deprecating jokes, I let him know how much I hated the pullover and pleaded with him to stop wearing it every day.

And so, out of kindness, he hid the pullover away, and now the only place I get to see it is in this picture from our horrible cruise.