Thirty-five years ago today — April 22, 1987 — on the third anniversary of our first date, Allen and I stood in front of the fireplace of our little house on Bross Street in Longmont and exchanged rings. We promised each other that we’d be together no matter what. It was as close to getting married as we could get in those days. We hugged and kissed and maybe even cried a few happy tears.

Then we went to Perkins for dinner.

We would be together in that way for another twelve years before separating amicably. We stayed close as friends, and he even moved back into our house as my roommate for a year until I moved to Miami. We often talked on the phone for hours on birthdays, anniversaries, or just when we wanted to, and as readers of my plays will attest, he shows up quite often as a character, and even as himself (“A Tree Grows in Longmont,” “Another Park, Another Sunday,” and “Going for a Walk with Sam”). When he slept away on June 8, 2018, the bond was not broken.

I kept our rings in a little wooden jewel box — his is the one on the left — and the piece of paper under it is where I wrote down his phone number on the night we met on April 22, 1984.

I will always call you sweetheart.