One night five years ago, I was getting ready for bed. It was about 11 p.m. My fiance, Aaron, whom I’d lived with for ten years, was in the living room. I could hear Sex and the City droning on the television.
“Kiri, come here,” he said, softly. “We need to talk.”
I padded into the living and plopped into a chair across from him. For an instant, it occurred to me that he might be about to tell me something horrible, but I just as instantly dismissed the thought. When you’ve lived with a man for a decade, you reside in a peaceful place of complete confidence that you know him thoroughly.
I was about to have that confidence forever stripped from me.
“I think I’m confused about my sexuality,” Aaron said. Then he burst into wracking sobs.
