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I waited a long time before mentioning him in a column as anything other than a friend. Then, a couple months ago, describing my quest for a vintage Waffle House mug, I called him "my pilot." A few savvy readers noticed and congratulated me on having someone new to call my own.

And I thought, for a brief shining moment, he could be mine. It seemed we had a lot of the right stuff in common. He got my literary references, celebrated my successes, did not need to make me smaller in order to feel good about himself. He leaned right where I lean left and we generally met in the middle better off, more cognizant of our blind spots. He was smart, ambitious, and adventurous. I didn't have to come up with all the ideas. And he was old-fashioned enough to want to provide fo

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