I stand in the dark hall, halfway between the well-lit kitchen, and my blue-lit office. Deb has followed me, after we talked; I see her shape, backlit, hands together, 4 foot 11 inches, asking me if I am able to finally eat other than soup. I say yes, I think so.

"Whatever you want," she says.

Today Deb was formally reviewed, after 2 years, by both the President and her immediate boss, at her SUNY school.

I just crossed out the 3rd version of this paragraph, listing the actual, astounding increases she has wrought for this school, each quarter. Numerics are swell; I tell a different story, though. Know this: she set new records. She won some top awards. Went to Atlantic City, for two days, to accept them.

My different story is why she is so beautiful, why I love her so. She is why I am who I am.

I met her at the Graphic Artists Guild in the 1980s. She conducted their portfolio reviews, because she ran their popular Placement Center, for the Manhattan office. I was a guy from Montana, with cases full of Bison and Elk drawings, ads for lumber companies. I had asked for a review, as a dues-paying Guild member.

I am 6 feet tall. When I sat there, and she stood? I was slightly embarrassed, when she came out from behind her desk; she hovered around me, looking at my work, telling me what I should throw out, keep, re-arrange, re-section. I kept my eyes down.

I also hung on every word, being a dirt-poor single parent, living 3 feet 11 inches from the J train in Woodhaven, Queens. Weighing the cost every day of tokens, figs for dessert (they took longer to chew), cheap apple juice, all on an unreliable income, and to nurture a 5-year-old.

I was acutely aware of her as she pointed to my work, rustled next to me. Deb had at the time the only permanent she ever had, tight orphan annie curls. Don't ask. No photo exists. She was a petite Jewish girl, zaftig but slim. She had what half-a-generation before mine, the Eddies and Ronnies in my neighborhood, the ones who worked in white, oil-stained Ts, on old cars, would have a called a "little twist".

She was and is a good dancer -- her Dad taught her-- but that's not what I mean. What I mean is: just before people got all Honest and Real (and Blunt and Crude)? Some boys would va-voom and say "what a little twist" from the sides of their mouths, and a precocious little 9-year-old like me could hear it in polite company and realize everybody, even Grandpa, knew exactly what they were talking about.

She encouraged me.

I got up to leave. She walked me to the ancient elevator. Noisy rush hour, heading for the tunnels on the west side, squealed and honked and revved outside. Her own first performance review was that night, by the Guild's board. I was her last appointment of the day.

We stood there. I was heading for the F train and to relieve the after-school sitter. A rather famous illustrator joined us, waiting. They joked some. She mentioned the review. He was hale and hearty, told her she would "do fine".

Deb was nervous. I have seen her like this many times since, but she did something surreal that day, unlike anything she has done in the 26 years since:

-- she made a happy, "hope-so" grimace, and crossed her hands flat across her collars

-- she laughed anxiously; when she smiles her eyes completely disappear (she swears she can still see)

-- then she leaned in, a foot to her right

-- I had a case in each hand, my one New York City sport coat on, a small backpack pulling my shoulders back, and she exhaled and

she lay, she rested, her head on me, on my broad chest

--yes

-- she did

-- never stopped smiling

-- and sighed, contented.

Now, I can't say for sure what that other fellow was actually thinking, but an impartial observer could say we were both thinking something like "well, you don't see girls do THAT every day", what with our wide eyes and all.

Then without seeming to notice she moved back. We laughed, kept talking, etc. The elevator arrived. He rattled back the cage door.

But inside me?

An electric fence.

I hadn't dated for two years. Had no relationship, back in Montana, in France, or yet in New York. I had a young child, and it scared good women my age and attracted the wrong older ones.

Until Deborah.

Until she just set her head on my untouched and nobly-aimed heart.

I left a-sizzle, all the rickety ride down, and stumbled into the noise of 24th street. One block to Broadway, to the first pay phone, where I called her up and asked her out.

She laughed. She covered the phone twice, but she said Yes. (Later I learned she immediately went and looked thru my entire file. Prudent, that.)

Hey, OK, it was part cowardice on my part, but mostly I was just too stunned. One block, not even, it took. I was a responsible guy in a responsible routine. I had to process.

Our first date was Caroline's comedy club, where among others a nobody named Jay Leno was trying out some blue material. We laughed too hard, saw each other's "worst" faces, and fell in love. I remember the moment like a party scene art directed by Vincent Minnelli, color-saturated: the tables, her half-turned to see the stage; the way we yakked loud; how polite and deferential we were while snorting and guffawing and drinking wine. How merry she was.

I felt this: this sweetness is for me.

So let's get to why I am the way I am: Deborah waited me out.

I was OK, I was fun company, I had my merits, but she saw the True Good behind the bad behind the pretty good behind the too-good-to-be-true. She saw past the too-much-reality-sorry-what-with-that-kid, in that era of Danceteria and CBGBs and Loisaida and hipster wilderness, that every other woman leaned back from.

Except Deborah. She leaned in and heard my heart.

Hear this:

She has grabbed me by the shirt, torn it, pushed me 20 feet back before either of us could register backward motion, on my worst day, shouting up at me "enough!"

She held me eyeball to eyeball, millimeters away, pupil to pupil, wrapped around me, when the amnio needle went in.

She made herself a tight ball delivering our youngest, said "to hell with this", and on the second push squirted her out so efficiently the two gowned women between her knees nearly missed the catch; one said involuntarily "holy shit", the other said "OK!"

At her side, her nails dug into my hand, I watched her scalp go instantly purple. She was covered with pin-dot capillary bursts, every inch of her, for three days.

She owned a literary fortune cookie company called "Divines" and sold them for $15 a box at Bloomies, E.A.T., and Marshall Fields.

She grew the registered user base for whatis.com from 400 to 90,000 in four years, shepherded the sale of the site. We had equity (thanks, Lowell!; we bought our first and only house.

And through the decades, raising two more whiz-bang daughters as well, she improved my by a factor. Exponentially. She showed me the power of restraint, of silly affection, of optimism, of patience, of begrudging and allowing. How to not exhaust my children by painstakingly working everything out, then explaining it in detail.

How to shut-up, she taught me. Men, do not underestimate this. It only feels like gyp for a little while.

I stopped exhausting everyone, my clients, my friends, her, me. She showed me how.

Deb's parents are holocaust survivors, hidden children. Everyone who meets Deb immediately finds her charming and delightful, but she is sinewed with steel. As she grew she watched her parents recover themselves, their sense of self, their adultness, and become parents. They grew their hope and raised hers as well, giving her a fearless persistence and child's wonder.

Her mother Lola just decided to get her GED one day. "Why not?", she finally decided.

My country tis of thee, and Walter and Lola, and Deborah, beloved, I sing. America saved my children's grandparents, made it safe for Lola to say "why not" to resuming her life, and Deb learned this: always grow, do good things, put yourself forward.

Forward onto my chest, against my lonely and beating heart.

She helped me raise Molly. Our next daughter, Deb's and mine, was born when Molly was a teen, so we have been Mom and Dad for 27 years.

We've had two vacations. Priorities.

We hope things get better, every year. Most years they do. She left the presidency of our company to work at SUNY, to get us stability. After her cancer, my surgeries, and losing our house to pay for it all. I love her.

And today her boss, and her school President, listed all the reasons why they love her too. She has transformed all communication -- and thus enrollment -- at the school. She got them into TV with smart media buys (the commercial she made won that top award). She got them on Twitter and Facebook. She grins, describing how they now count the exact number -- double digit percentages of the overall -- who enroll via a Facebook link.

They are helping her finish her Adelphi Masters, they told her today, to remove any ceiling on advancement there.

And she tells me tonight she loves this job because of the good she does. Bridging good students to better schools. Inspiring kids to try college, expanding opportunities for returning adults. It is, it is noble work, i said to her.

She has all of this because she gives her all, and works hard. And the truth is, she indulges me, and the girls.

I see her in silhouette in the hall, telling me "anything you want". She means dinner, and she means anything, a life as a writer, if she could give it to me, a calmer soul, if she could. A different past, if it were in her power.

I am too sick still so I can't go closer or kiss her, to properly congratulate her for all she earned today. I tell her: "Remember the best hug i ever gave you". Her eyes disappear, she smiles wide, we each slowly pantomime hugging each other.

And she bends her head forward, to the side, just so, hears my heart beat again, from all the way in here.

Some would own the air and light around them if they could. Some win it, fair or no, from selfish effort. Some, like Deborah, give it away, all of it, and so possess it utterly.

It is my great blessing to breathe her air, reflect her light, possessed as I am by my beloved wife.

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