We met in 1998, at a health and relationship course run back then by the Gay Men’s Health Centre in Melbourne. I saw David across the crowded room at a drinks session afterwards and slowly made my way around to talking with him. We were both in our mid-30s, and I’ve always gone for those tall skinny guys. We chatted easily and before he left I scribbled down my number.
He rang a few weeks later on a Saturday night, apparently figuring I wouldn’t be home and that he’d just leave a message. When I picked up, I think he was a little thrown. He said something like: “Hi, um, hang on a sec, oh fuck, I’ve gotta turn the rice down!” And I thought, this is my sort of guy – Saturday night at home cooking rice, what’s not to love.
Not long after that I had him over for dinner. I’d cooked a roast and he always tells the story that there were 17 different vegetables. There might have been seven or eight – but he was clearly impressed. The first time I went to stay over at his share house, his bedroom was basically his futon, desk and bike and a stack of unpacked boxes.
I’d studied theatre and was starting to get regular film and TV gigs. His background was nuclear physics and science. So we didn’t have a whole lot in common professionally – chalk and cheese to be honest. But I think politically we were aligned from the start. Neither of us had come from great privilege so we were definitely on the same page when it came to social justice. But until meeting David, I’d never known someone with such a sense of fairness or capacity for empathy.
A couple of months after we’d met, I got this freelance film gig requiring me to move to Sydney. I was staying in Glebe in a share flat with my bedroom balcony overlooking native casuarinas. David was flying up for the weekend and I was pretty excited. I clearly recall that night, the sound of those trees in the wind and a profound sense of connection and happiness. My previous relationships hadn’t been altogether successful, and maybe it was a kind of yin yang thing, but we’d become very much at ease with each other.
Waking up to that humid Sydney morning, David emerged naked from the shower. I offered him a Japanese robe I’d found from a costume designer’s sale. It was kind of masculine with a dark pattern of navy octagons with fine, pale blue geometric flowers and a simple, striking burnt orange sash. With his lean stature and his then shaggy blond hair, he looked pretty handsome. I reached for my film camera to capture that moment.
I asked, “You used to live in Japan right?” And he said he did, as a nuclear physics student. In a bunker. In Sendai, 300km north of Tokyo. I mean, who says that? I was intrigued and utterly captivated. That was the day I fell in love with him.
And that was the start of one of our first long talks, you know those talks where you both start to peel back the layers? After that job in Sydney a few months later, I moved back to Melbourne. Our relationship just got closer and deeper, and we were spending most of our time at my place – so he abandoned his share house.
Now we live in North Melbourne. We love our simple no-car life and our leafy, walkable ’hood. When we met, David had a futon, a bike, a backpack and some CDs. Twenty-five years later he’s still pretty much the same.
We don’t really accumulate stuff. We’re pretty happy with our books, our bikes, some cherished trinkets from our travels and each other. And last year we visited a shop in Tokyo to get fitted for yukatas – lighter-weight kimonos – which we love to wear when we’re lazing around the house.
I think we’ve lasted over a quarter of a century as a couple because we are pretty good at listening to each other. Bloody hell, relationships are hard but over the years I think we’ve genuinely wanted the best for each other. He’s been a steadfast constant and my closest friend.
