The day I met Harry, he was drunk and desperate. We were in a bar with a group of work colleagues, and he was ranting about how a woman had mistreated him. There was something about fumbled sex on a beach, and a long train ride, and a wound to the heart. His tone was dramatic, misogynistic, and self-pitying. I thought he was the most obnoxious man I had ever met.
It turned out that he was also one of the funniest, brightest, and most politically astute. After I helped get him into Alcoholics Anonymous and he got sober, he came to say that I was the only woman he trusted — which I foolishly accepted as a compliment. We were lovers for seven years.
