For him but for the time, the place, the people.

It wasn’t just his clothes, but how he smiled

Or shook your hand or listened to a joke.

I’ve never seen a person comparable,

Except in movies of a certain era,

The sort where Cary Grant casually enters

In clothes of such exquisite tailoring

The cameras caress him like a lover,

Or Garbo lifts a cocktail to her lips

So that you, sitting in the dark, can taste

A dozen heartbreaks in a single gesture.

I know exactly what you’re thinking now—

My story and my friend seem superficial.

You don’t take people like us seriously,

Though every day you pass us on the street.

What does style matter? Quite a lot, I say.

Style isn’t fashion. It’s knowing who you are

And how you hold yourself up to the world.

It’s the clear surface that lets you see the depths.

I wake up many mornings full of dread,

Knowing my life is not what I intended.

Just like my clothes, it doesn’t really fit.

(What was it I intended anyway?)

Most lives consist of choosing the wrong things.

We try to compensate by choosing more,

As if sheer mass bestowed integrity.

II.

We met in college. Never closest friends,

We always stayed in touch. I’ll never know

Just what he saw in me—perhaps an audience.

No, that’s unfair. I think it was pure kindness.

I stumbled through life losing jobs and girls,

Wasting the little money that I made.

Tom was a golden boy. While others climbed,

He took flight. His success was existential:

It wasn’t what he did; he simply was

The way he was, which is to say, he was

Exactly what the business world wanted.

At thirty-two he started his own firm.

At thirty-five he took the venture public.

He prospered like one chosen by the gods.

His corner office seemed built on a cloud—

With miles of open sky and bright blue water

Shining through the glass walls above the bay.

So effortless and absolute his triumph,

Who could have guessed the way the story ended?

Tom put me on the list for all his parties.

I had no dignity. I always went,

Eager and underdressed. He had the trick

Of going to the limits of delight

While never overstepping to excess.

He booked the most astonishing locations—

The Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center,

The Hall of the Great Whale, the Stock Exchange,

And the Egyptian Temple at the Met.

He turned each place into a sort of stage.

These parties made me feel as if I’d walked

Into the secret movie in my mind

Where I’m the star, and everything is bright,

Glamorous, and romantic—even me.

Tom dated a succession of tall beauties.

And then came Eden. I can’t be objective

In any way about her. She was perfect—

Beautiful, elegant, intelligent.