There’s an ongoing joke between my people and I about my ex husband collection. How I never date, I just get married. I think the last time I had a boyfriend was in high school. So now, finally, at 37 years old – I have a boyfriend. An exceptionally hot boyfriend, in fact.

My boyfriend’s parents are from Italy, he has four siblings like I do and he’s quite fond of the puppies. He and I have plenty of jokes about how I’ve been to Brooklyn more times in the past three weeks than I have in my entire life.

Literally.

My hot boyfriend prefers whiskey and smokes two packs a day. He talks to me on the phone for hours. He usually calls me fourĀ or five times a day. He never texts, and I love that. Sometimes I feel texting is the final demise of language art.

Although I have sent a few ripper texts in my time…

My boyfriend’s name is Anthony. We have the same taste in music. He opens doors and pulls out chairs. He’ll probably read this one day and it will make me blush. I wear his clothes and the secrets between us are so tightly squeezed between my lips that they increase my blood pressure and make my heart beat faster.

And faster.

Anthony is my favorite boy. His essence of everything startles me into silent smiles which he often replies to with, “Everything good, doll?” with this Brooklyn-Italian twang that makes me pant.

The stories and the poetry have kept me completely occupied in ink. We’ve already joked about marriage in a very serious way.

Lucky number three.

But enough of all that talk. Aside from falling in love, being in love and yearning for this piece of perfection that the Universe finally decided it’s time to deliver, I’ve been listening to this: