Issey Miyake's IM MEN SS26 Unveils a Poetic Dialogue Between Fabric and Form, Inspired by Shoji Kamoda
Summary
IM MEN, the menswear line under theIssey Miyakeumbrella unveiled itsSpring/Summer 2026collection, aptly titled 'Dancing Texture' at the minimalist elegance of the Fondation Cartier pour l'art contemporain. This season's offering is a profound exploration of textile possibilities, born from an extraordinary encounter between the IM MEN design team and the unique formative beauty of pioneering Japanese ceramic artist, Shoji Kamoda.
The collection is a sartorial translation of Kamoda's philosophy, who, despite a career spanning only two decades, left an indelible mark on contemporary Japanese ceramics with his bold, uninhibited works. IM MEN's design team embarked on a journey to wear Kamoda's creations as garments, amplifying the sensations evoked through quiet conversations with his practice. Guided by the fundamental philosophy of a piece of cloth, the collection finds harmony with the richly layered, multifaceted textures of Kamoda's ceramics, resulting in textiles imbued with unparalleled depth and dimension, crafted by the subtle hand of innovation.
The collection meticulously translates specific ceramic works into textile masterpieces. For the UROKOMON Series, which is inspired by Kamoda's animal-like scale patterns, this series utilizes a complex 'bonding opal process,' this innovative technique involves layering and precise printing, where untreated areas of a top cotton layer peel away after washing, revealing a printed base. The result is a dynamic motif of merging curves and straight lines that echo Kamoda's ceramic plates. The Gintō (Silver Pottery) Series recreates the weighty, metallic luster of Kamoda's pure silver pigment glazed bowls. The Kaiyu Series is inspired by Kamoda's plant ash-glazed ceramics with their striking contrast between pale celadon and exposed earthy clay, while the Engrave Series draws from Kamoda's 'Waved Patterns,' where wave-like carvings are integrated into ceramic forms.
A significant announcement accompanying the collection is the launch of 'ISSEY MIYAKE FOOT,' a joint footwear development project between MIYAKE DESIGN STUDIO (MDS) and ASICS SportStyle. Rooted in Miyake's concept of creating clothing from a 'piece of cloth,' this collaboration aims to create entirely new footwear through the resonance of creativity and technology. The first collab results in the 'HYPER TAPING,' which reinterprets ASICS's iconic side stripes. Inspired by athletic taping, MDS has reconstructed the stripes to wrap the foot, enhancing structural strength and fit, showcasing a powerful fusion of both brands' expertise.
IM MEN's Spring/Summer 2026 collection is a testament to the transformative power of art and material innovation, inviting a deeper appreciation for the textures that dance between inspiration and creation.
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Many moons ago, my beloved husband, Miguel Herrera—have you heard of him?—gave an earthshaking performance in an event space in the East Village, Henderson Square (actually our friend Hattie Henderson's studio apartment), that completely changed our lives. It was on a warm spring evening, impossibly verdant considering the urban grit, or maybe it was just youth (mine) aromatizing the air. But there was an anticipatory excitement I felt a lot back then, in my fingertips and in my belly, as I walked up St. Marks to the theater, my senses heightened. I could smell the dirt at the base of the scraggly sidewalk trees, the animal and human urine perfuming their roots, and the peppery green of their unfurling leaves. Even the weed the punks from Scarsdale were smoking as they camped outside Hattie's building was nothing like the skunky stuff we have now. It was the scent of 'something coming,' like those old Sondheim lyrics from West Side Story, so stimulating that I almost couldn't bear it. What can I say? I was 22, finally free of my parents, madly in love, and ready to eat the world. Hattie lived on the top floor of a five-story walk-up. I'd gotten off late from work and was rushing, so I took the stairs two steps at a time in my Doc Martens and a chiffon thrift-shop dress so flowy, I carried a cloud of the stoners' exhales with me as I climbed. When I arrived at the open door, I was breathless and already a little high. The room was full. I could see the stage over the heads of the people sitting on the floor and on folding chairs, and through a crowd of standing-room-onlys. I would end up watching the whole event perched in an open window frame at the back of the room next to the fire escape, half in, half out, but I didn't care. I could smoke cigarettes there, and I was delighted that Miguel and his crew had such a good audience. In that moment, maybe for the first and last time in my life, I knew I was exactly where I should be: on the top floor of a tenement near Avenue A, in this magical little bird's nest of creativity, married to a brilliant, handsome man who was crazy about me. I still believe all this to be true. In those days, Hattie slept on an ad hoc Murphy bed, just a metal frame with springs that she'd rigged herself. Whenever she crammed folks into her teeny place, she folded it up against a wall with the help of shower-curtain hooks and rods, concealing the bulge of the mattress with blue-and-white tablecloths she'd found at Azuma, a Japanese schlock shop on Eighth Street next door to Brentano's, where I was employed as a bookseller. Otherwise, there was just a low rust-colored corduroy sofa that Miguel and I had helped her lug from where he'd spotted it on Avenue B, near the park, plus some overstuffed pillows strewn across the linoleum floor. On non–performance nights, when we brought Stromboli's pizzas upstairs in cardboard boxes, we were a family: the three of us with our similar-sounding last names—I'd taken Miguel's at the City Clerk's Office in Lower Manhattan, no way was I holding on to Lipschutz—and completely different origin stories. Usually, we were joined by whomever Hattie was dating at the time: boys, girls, it didn't matter, it was 'the person' that counted to Hattie. We'd spread a big beach towel out on her floor like a picnic table, drink Bolla Soave out of Dixie cups, and eat hard, sandy Italian cookies from Veniero's bakery, my favorites bejeweled by maraschino cherries. On performance nights like this one, she arranged the various forms of seating in a tight semicircle around 'the stage,' an empty white box of nothingness otherwise known as Hattie's kitchen. In a corner of the room was her ancient refrigerator, which tended to buzz at precisely the wrong time, a sink, a little wooden bar cart that housed her coffee maker, a toaster oven, and a hot plate. Sometimes, Hattie invited poets to read. Occasionally, playwrights like me used the room to workshop stuff. Already, as I settled into my window seat, the spritely, generous Hattie was starting the evening as she always did: with a little song she'd written, and which she played on her ukulele. Hattie had no real talent to speak of, beyond the curatorial—which I now know is everything. I didn't realize what a petri dish 'the Square' was until a bunch of us just kept on working after getting our start there, and a few folks became famous. Then she introduced the show. For months, Miguel and his best friend from boyhood, Angel, both Dominicans from Washington Heights, had been working on a same-sex performance of an abridged version of Sam Shepard's masterful new play, Fool for Love. An actor friend had snuck them a script, and in their buoyant and budding hubris, they'd futzed around with it, with an eye toward giving Angel, openly gay, a role to shine in. The show had by this time premiered in San Francisco, and Shepard had already won a Pulitzer for something else, but that didn't stop these two from having their fun. Shepard's play was about a pair of lovers, Eddie and May, who find out well into their romance—which began as teenagers—that they have the same biological father. Hearing this news, Eddie's mother kills herself, and the kids break up. Years later, Eddie, still heartbroken, tracks May down to a motel room on the edge of the Mojave Desert to win her back. The lights dimmed, and three men entered the stage from the greenroom of Hattie's loo. My Miguel, in his best James Dean white T-shirt and a borrowed motorcycle jacket, was the tortured Eddie. The Murphy bed was open and neatly made. That and two of the folding chairs were the lone props. Angel, dressed like a carhop on roller skates (a nod to Shepard's earlier The Tooth of Crime), wore white leather rhinestone shorts and a white mesh top. He was May, although they had changed his name to Max, and he executed a series of graceful figure eights before rolling to the kitchen sink to begin washing dishes. In Shepard's original script, the father was identified only as 'the Old Man,' and this evening, he was played by an older Brit—by which I mean older than us, nearing 30—who was also the director. This guy, a 'total fox,' as we used to say, with teal-colored eyes and long, long legs, sat to the side of the stage in one of the folding chairs, wearing worn denim overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, and a fishing hat (as if that touch of Americana might cancel out his accent). As per the text, he commented throughout the play. But it was Miguel who had the kickoff, laying out Eddie and Max's history: It was like we knew each other from somewhere but we couldn't place where. But the second we saw each other, that very second, we knew we'd never stop being in love. It's not like I was an idiot or Miguel was a liar. Au contraire. We told each other everything! We were soulmates. And we were fools. He was talking about Angel's character but looking directly at me, giving a little wink. I winked back; he did this once a show. Always. It was our 'thing,' because the first time we'd laid eyes on each other on the train, back in high school, he'd leaned across the subway car and said, 'What fucks like a tiger and winks?' and then blinked both his eyes silly. We'd laughed back then, and even now, six years later, it still undid me. Then Miguel strode onto center stage, just as Angel turned away from the sink to dry his hands on a paper towel. The look on Angel/Max's face when he saw Miguel/Eddie in his home! Miguel said: He's just standing there, staring at me and I'm staring back at him and we can't take our eyes off each other. Then Miguel moved toward poor Angel. I came to see if you were all right, he said. I don't need you! Angel cried out. Okay, Miguel said. Fine, and he started to walk away. Angel, in agony, screamed: DON'T GO! With that, they rushed into each other's arms. In victory, Miguel actually appeared to levitate off the ground. And there it was, the anguish and joy that genuine passion created, the to-ing and fro-ing, the losing and winning—at this point in my life, I don't know if I'd wish it on anyone, but back then, there was no denying the jealousy and exhilaration we in the audience felt while witnessing their A-Train-coming-at-you brand of forbidden love. Who wouldn't want a piece of that sexy, hot, rapturous action if they could have it, even momentarily, no matter what the cost? They were so goddamned alive in each other's arms! That's what I adore about the theater. It tells a truth that can't be conveyed in an article or an essay or even a Dear John letter. It's not like I was an idiot or Miguel was a liar. Au contraire. We told each other everything! We were soulmates. And we were fools. But what I saw on that stage in Hattie's apartment was two boys desperately in love, so ready to fuck there and then, I could literally picture it in my mind's eye. I was crying when Hattie hit the light switch at the close of the show (the Square had no curtains), and clapping thundered throughout the apartment, the iridescent bubble that I'd blown around my life punctured and now impossible to reconstruct. Before it was revealed to me through live theater, our marriage arrangement had somehow felt negligible, even deniable, something theoretical and insubstantial that I could brush aside. Never in my whole life have I ever understood anything that was not presented to me on a silver platter of narrative. You could put a message on a billboard on Broadway, up in lights, but it wouldn't sink in unless I arrived at it through the transformative journey of a well-enacted story. I was crying, but also I felt nauseated. I thought, I must be getting my period—maybe I'm just feeling hormonal? Disavowal and acceptance were paradoxically my drugs of choice—until they weren't. When Hattie turned the lights back up again, I made a beeline for the restroom as all three performers, now receiving a standing O, were taking their well-earned bows. I had to push through the crowd and cut across a corner of the stage to get there. Hattie's bathroom. It was the same water closet that the actors had stepped away from or, in Angel's case, rolled out of just 90 minutes earlier. I opened the door, turned on the light, and closed it behind me. Hattie's toothbrush and toothpaste sat in a little plastic cup on the dated olive-green enamel sink. I swiped a tampon from the box I knew she kept in the medicine chest. After I inserted it, flushed the paper applicator, and began to wash my hands and tearstained face, I looked hard at myself in that oxidizing mirror: I was pretty in a way most girls are for a time when they are young. I had a mild eating disorder, which was looking good on me. Ellen Stewart at La MaMa had agreed just the week before to produce my newest one-act. What was I whining about? My husband and I were made for each other. We snuck into Broadway plays during intermission and, back in the day, had danced together at Hurrah, listened to music at Max's Kansas City, played pool in the neighborhood bars, stayed up all night talking about the sun, moon, and stars. Most important, he read every single page I ever wrote and improved them almost all of the time. I'd never felt that understood or supported by anyone else in my entire life. So what, he liked to sleep with men? I did too. This had all been discussed and understood between us since the 12th grade. I, also, could have sex with whomever I chose, although he didn't like it when I did, and I didn't want to—and anyway, Miguel and I were still lovers, he was enough for me, he knew how to get me off, and he did it willingly and, I'd thought at the time, with some pleasure (although he preferred me on my stomach). He just did other things with other people once in a while because I wasn't enough for him. No one's fault but God's, whom Miguel believed in; he was Catholic, and that is why we married. (I was a secular Jew from Stuyvesant Town whose parents thought I'd lost my mind. They were still hoping I'd get back together with my sixth-grade boyfriend, David Hershleder, who'd gone from Bronx Science straight to Cornell University and was headed in the fall to Mount Sinai medical school. Hershleder was the ideal son-in-law!) Looking in the mirror, I'd almost convinced myself that all this was true—easy, because it was—and that it was also sustainable (I can feel you rolling your eyes), and, while I was practicing the art of self-deception, that I, too, like Sam Shepard, would win a Pulitzer if I finally wrote a play with three full acts, when the British director barged into the bathroom without knocking. 'Sorry, but I really need to wee,' he said. 'Don't let me stop you,' I said. He reached into the fly of his overalls, whipped it out, and aimed straight into the toilet. 'I was practically swimming out there.' He'd played the nasty Old Man kind of stiffly, I thought, but then again, he wasn't supposed to be an actor. He was the director, the director who'd coaxed that magnificent performance out of my Miguel. In 30 more awkward seconds, I learned that his name was Walker, and after he buttoned up and politely washed his hands, he shook mine and introduced himself. 'Anna,' I said. Then I turned the bathroom knob, and we exited together. Miguel and Angel were grinning maniacs standing in the middle of the set with their arms around each other's shoulders, like ballplayers after a winning game surrounded by a circle of glowing fans. Miguel was on his tippy-toes, telescoping his neck (shortness being his single physical imperfection), clearly searching the room. 'Anna,' he shouted, waving me over and giving Walker the stink eye. 'Where have you been? What were you two doing in there? Not coke, I hope, without me.' What choice did I have then but to run to him? It was my job as his wife, his muse! He let go of Angel and swung me around in the air in a little circle, the skirt of my dress billowing, like everything about us, dramatically. 'What did you think, mi amor?' he asked. 'You were so amazing!' I said. 'You liked it?' he whispered in my hair. 'It was all for you. For us.' And then he smiled. 'And a little bit for Angel.' 'I did, I did,' I said, while he pulled back and held me at arm's length to see if I was telling the truth. My opinion was of the utmost importance to him. 'You were great. He was good. But you were truly spectacular.' 'I love you so much,' he said. 'Every day I ask God, 'How did I get this lucky?'' 'I love you too,' I said. Then he put one crazy macho arm possessively around my shoulders. I could smell his underarm when he reached over behind my head, his Old Spice, and the musk of him, like when he ran, or when we had sex; he was painted in sweat from the performance. 'I see you've met my wife,' he said to Walker. 'Anna?' said Walker, his eyebrows shooting up in cartoonish surprise. Just then, Hattie's refrigerator loudly buzzed like a timer on a game show. Everyone turned to look at it, and then everyone turned back to look at Walker. 'Well, I guess I have met your wife,' Walker said, regaining his footing. 'What were the two of you doing together in the bathroom?' Miguel asked again. Suddenly, we were back at the basketball courts in Fort Tryon Park, surrounded by the Bichos, his tough-guy crew from high school. It was another thing I loved about him—how easily he got territorial and possessive. 'I really had to go,' said Walker, shrugging. 'I didn't realize someone was already in there.' 'We met-cute,' I said, hoping to sound flip. There was a fizzy little blonde in a polka-dot mini and one of those fuzzy sweaters standing impatiently next to Angel. 'Anna, this is Jeannie Elbazz,' Miguel introduced us. 'She's an agent. She reps Jake Kaminsky.' I knew the name. Jeannie's. Jake's too. He'd been in all those Oliver Stone movies. Clearly, so did Walker. He stuck out his hand. 'Walker Cogdill,' he said. 'Nice job directing,' said Jeannie, meaningfully. I guessed she didn't think much of his acting ability either. Then she turned to me. 'Do you mind if I borrow your hubby for the rest of the evening? I've been invited to a little industry party, and there are some people I'd like for him to meet.' Walker and Angel released a collective sigh of defeat. I'm not sure anyone else, be they parent or lover or friend, has ever been as attentive to my feelings as he was. 'No, I don't mind,' I said, in wifely mode. 'Walker and Angel and I were planning on getting dinner anyway.' Why on earth did I say that? That's the last thing I wanted. I wanted to go home. Kiss my Siamese cat, Buster. Put on Joni Mitchell. Cry my eyes out in the shower. Smoke a joint and call Hattie and talk to her until either Miguel arrived or we both fell asleep on the phone. ' Lo siento, querida,' Angel said to me. 'I'm going dancing with the fairies.' He pointed to his posse waiting patiently in the corner. One of them was his official boyfriend, Bobby. He was the first to get sick, although he lived long enough to go on AZT. 'I'd be happy to dine with you,' said Walker. Jeannie was already glancing with impatience at her watch. Miguel looked at me searchingly with his big, dark eyes. He was sweet that way. He wanted to make sure I was okay. The cynical among you may accuse me of looking back through the rosy gold of a nostalgic haze, but I'm not sure anyone else, be they parent or lover or friend, has ever been as attentive to my feelings as he was. 'Go,' I said. 'Go.' We kissed goodbye, and I gave Jeannie a little wave, but she was already heading out the door, and Miguel was loping across the floor to catch up with her. Then I turned to Walker. 'You really don't have to,' I said. 'This is my very first American gig,' said Walker. 'It's either I eat with you, or I get a couple of slices by my lonesome and go home and watch the telly.' 'Do you like Szechuan cold sesame noodles?' I asked him. They were the rage in those days, and super cheap. 'That's Chinese, hmm? New to me,' said Walker. 'But new to me is why I'm here. I'm game. Also, I'm pretty fucking hungry.' 'Bamboo House,' I said. 'The sign says Chinese food, but it's really just sesame oil and peanut butter. However, they serve free wine. Just over on Second Avenue.' 'Free wine, you say?' said Walker. 'I'm sold. You lead the way.' 'Okay,' I said. 'But first I have to go thank Hattie.' It took me another 30 minutes or so to extricate myself from the Square, there were so many cheeks to kiss, compliments to collect, and joints to toke. As I finally made it to the door, that guardian angel Hattie offered, sotto voce, 'If you want to come back after, Annie, we can have a sleepover,' and I nodded, feeling a little teary again. So I was surprised to find Walker waiting patiently for me on the sidewalk when I finally made my exit. I was sure he would be long gone, but there he was, drinking a beer. When I hopped off the last stoop step onto the street, he produced another bottle for me from the cargo pocket of his overalls. 'I know these dungarees seem a bit sad,' he said, staring down at his pathetic outfit. 'But they are in the stage directions. I got you a Heineken. Sorry if it's warm as piss.' 'It took me too long to get out of there,' I said. 'My fault. Are you still up for this?' 'Stop asking that,' said Walker. 'It's embarrassing. I have nothing else to do, and I'm grateful for the company.' We started walking over to Second Avenue, past what looked like a little Catholic school on the left, and Café Mogador, where they still have belly dancing, I'm told, on the right. The sidewalk was crowded, because the night was just getting started. 'So how long have you and Miguel been hitched?' He grabbed my waist as I was about to step in a little Carvel curl of dog doo, and swung me past it, just by lifting me off the ground an inch or two. The man was taller and stronger than I'd thought at first blush. 'Three years,' I said. 'But we've been together six. We did it after my freshman year at the New School.' 'Good for you. Though you don't look old enough to be married to anyone,' said Walker. 'Well, I am,' I said, defiantly. 'Your other half is brilliant,' he said. Then, starting over, unadorned admiration leaking out of his mouth, he said, 'As a director, I never want to tell the actors what to do, I want to wheedle it out of them, it's more organic that way, but I didn't have to sweet-talk Miguel. He's the real deal, a natural. More than that, I think he will go far.' I swelled with pride out of habit. We turned the corner; Bamboo House was in the middle of the block. 'That's it,' I said, pointing to the neon sign in the plate-glass window. ''Exotic food,'' Walker read out loud. 'I guess the free wine isn't enough of a selling point?' He opened the door and walked right in. Well trained by his loving mama, Miguel always held the door for me. To his credit, Walker sidestepped and held it ajar with one foot. We were seated in a vinyl booth by the window, bordered by snake plants on the sill, red lanterns hanging above our heads. A busy Chinese man wearing a white paper hat placed a teapot and two cups on the Formica table. Chopsticks and forks. Then he handed us menus that had been tucked under one arm. Walker opened his. 'What should I have?' he asked. 'Egg rolls, barbecued ribs, fried rice?' Those were Miguel's favorites. 'Done,' said Walker, and closed it again. 'What? I was just listing some family favorites. I'm not so sure how balanced a meal that is.' 'Well, I'm famished. And we're also getting the peanut macaroni, right?' he said. 'Then I think this should be enough.' I looked at the menu and remembered my eating disorder. 'I'm getting some brown rice and steamed broccoli,' I said. 'And I'll let you eat my noodles,' he said, like it was settled. I relaxed a little. The waiter came back with two cold glasses of fetchingly toxic-looking wine—they were an unnatural shade of Crayola lemon yellow—and placed them on the table. He took out his guest-check pad, and Walker nodded at me, so I did the ordering for both of us. 'What about you?' I asked, once the waiter was out of earshot. 'Do you have someone special in your life?' I sounded like my great-aunt Sadie. 'Holly? She's a ballerina,' he said. 'She's dancing with the Royal Ballet right now. She's supposed to come visit this summer if I last that long.' 'Why did you come to New York?' I asked. I took a sip of the wine. It was as sweet and thirst-quenching as Kool-Aid. I liked it. It went down easy, and when the waiter passed by, I motioned for another round, even though I hadn't finished this one yet. By the time he came back with the food, I'd want it. 'I can do things here I can't do back in London. Like tonight, for instance. Like, I also like to stage dance, which is how Holly and I met. I'm not afraid of mixing stuff up,' he said. 'Music, dance, theater, art, it's all the same to me. Together, it's only more interesting.' 'I write plays myself,' I said. 'It's the only thing I can do, period. I mean, I work in a bookstore, and I'm slowly, slowly creeping toward my B.A., but I'd be a disaster at an office job, or anything else grown-up.' The waiter plopped two new glasses of wine on the table, as if they had been pre-poured on a conveyor belt in the kitchen. Finally, Walker took a tiny sip from his first one. 'This stuff is nasty,' he said, making a face. 'We could order you a beer?' I said, chugging mine. 'Nah.' He smiled. 'It's like this neighborhood. Sweet, cheap, and nasty. I'm thrilled to be here.' And indeed, he looked thrilled. 'So what is Holly like?' I asked. 'She's fabulous. Beautiful, talented, smart, kind …' He trailed off a little. 'But?' I said. He shook his head and frowned. 'I'm not sure I love her enough,' he said. 'I don't have that problem,' I said. 'Oh, no?' he asked, arching an eyebrow. 'You and Miguel?' 'If anything, I love him too much,' I said. 'I'm quoting the master himself now,' Walker said. ''Love is the only disease that makes you feel better.' Sam Shepard said that in an interview I read. I have fun with Holly, I like her a lot, but I don't know if she makes me feel better.' I felt the power of his stare travel all the way through my brown ones and down my spine and shiver into my knees. Did Miguel make me feel better? In some very important ways, he did—the ones I'd thought, until this particular night, mattered most. But in one really important way, he made me feel small and lonely. The waiter came back with a big tray. All of our fried, carby, greasy food at once. He served the dishes around the table like a croupier. Everything was sizzling. 'I want to be in love like that,' Walker said, digging into the big bowl of sesame noodles with his fork and plopping a mountain of it on my plate. 'Me too,' I said. 'I mean, I want that for you.' Showily, using my chopsticks, I took a big, delicious bite. 'And I want that for you too,' he said. Which startled me; hadn't I just said that was what I already had? I looked up straight into his teal-blue eyes, and I felt the power of his stare travel all the way through my brown ones and down my spine and shiver into my knees. What the fuck? After dinner, Walker walked me back to Hattie's. I'd lied and told him that I'd left something behind, a purse or a hat, my pet poodle? Something that made no sense at all; I didn't want him to know that I was going to sleep at Hattie's because I figured Miguel would sleep at Angel's, but I don't think Walker was paying too much attention by then. He looked tired. And maybe a little drunk and sick from all that oily food and crappy wine. When we got to Hattie's stoop, I asked him where he was staying. 'With some lads I know from university; they have an apartment up on 14th.' He nodded to the north with his handsome head. And then he said, 'You know, it's rare to find someone so easy to talk to.' Was it? Maybe it was. I'd never dated anyone but Miguel, and he could chat up the moon. I didn't know what to say. So I nodded in agreement and tucked away the thought for later. 'Good night, then,' he said, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek. 'Good night,' I said, my heart a wild bird trapped inside my chest as I turned and raced up the mountain of steps leading to Hattie's apartment. The door was unlocked. And who did I find splayed out on Hattie's Murphy bed but my Miguel. He was reading a copy of The Village Voice. 'Hey, you,' he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge to rest his feet on the floor. 'Hey, you,' I said. 'Where's the Hat-ster?' 'She went out with Emile and them. She told me you were coming back here later, so I waited.' He patted the bed next to him. I walked over and sat down. 'How was the party?' I asked. 'Pretty cool,' Miguel said. 'I think that Jeannie wants to sign me.' 'That's awesome, Miguel,' I said, throwing my arms around him. He laughed and hugged me back, allowing me to snuggle down into my space under his left arm, near the armpit. 'How was dinner with Walker?' he said. 'He's a nice guy,' I said. 'He's a good director,' Miguel said. He leaned over and tipped my face up, so I had to look him in the eyes. He pushed some of my curls behind one of my ears. 'I hope tonight wasn't too much for you,' he said. He never had any intention of hurting me, I'm telling you that now sincerely. Nobody loved each other more than me and Miguel. Love was not our problem. 'It was, and it wasn't,' I said. 'You are my precious wife,' he said. 'And you are my darling husband,' I said. Then we lay back on the bed in each other's arms, and guess what? We fell asleep that way, both of us with our clothes and boots still on, like little kids. Around 3 a.m., Hattie came home, and she crawled into the bed with us. I was aware enough of her to roll over and hand her part of the duvet. As I said, in those days, the Herreras and Hattie Henderson were a family. There are nights that take you from A to C and nights that take you from A to Z. This night took me from A to W, to Walker. I mean, not right away, of course, but eventually. Inevitably. It was a slow and painful reckoning. And for me, a big motherfucking surprise! I know I'd thought something incredible was coming when I'd left Brentano's earlier that evening, but never did I think it would carry me away from the man I loved with all my heart. Sometimes it takes forever to act on what you've already known for a long, long time. I imagine it was a little like quitting heroin: the highs, the lows, the anguish and the hunger. Walker waited patiently in the friend zone until, after a while, Miguel was either on the road working or 'out' all the time. Crying on Walker's shoulder when Miguel didn't come home one evening led to making love on Walker's futon in his apartment. What can I say? It was revelatory. Finally, I was enough for someone. 'More than enough,' Walker whispered into my ear that night. 'You are more than enough for me.' When I got the courage to move out of our place and into Hattie's, a protesting Miguel still helped me carry my belongings over to St. Marks. Little lambs that we were, we sobbed ceaselessly in each other's arms, not realizing a sadder day was coming. In the meanwhile, Jeannie had been doing her job, thank God. Miguel had a great run after Fool. He went on the road as Horst in Bent; in Biloxi Blues, he played Eugene, with Jake Kaminsky as Arnold; and with his inky-black locks dyed sandy brown, he took the crown as Biff in Death of a Salesman on Broadway. During that time, he'd likewise moved on from Angel to Angel's ex Bobby, and then to Marcos. I'd left, but I'd also set him free! There was a new kind of harmony between us. It was another year before Miguel tested positive. It took encouragement and hand-holding from Walker to get tested myself, so we did it together. I was shaking when they drew my blood, but Walker held me steady. When it was his turn, he just stuck out his arm. With that out of the way, we moved in together into a Mitchell-Lama sublet on First Avenue and East Second Street. Angel eventually gave up on theater and entered the world of fashion, and is alive today. As Miguel got sicker, Angel and I and Miguel's mother took turns taking care of him. We hadn't divorced, and even if we had, he would always be my husband. Sometimes Walker would accompany me to the apartment, and sometimes, when I was working, he also went on his own to visit. They were friends, in the end. As Miguel lay dying, I sat by his bedside, day after day after day, the two of us talking a blue streak like always. Once he stopped eating, the conversations stopped too, Miguel's eyes glazing over as I read to him from his beloved Auden, from the New York Post. I sang to him until, one evening, long after he had stopped saying much, he shook his ravaged head, bald and spotted, unrecognizable, and said, ' Mi amor, por favor, please, please shut up.' It was almost as if he'd come back from the dead. We burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed, our final laugh together. I'm the worst singer in the world. After Miguel died, Walker and I kept on working and building our careers. Eventually, we put a ring on it and had a little daughter. Kate. She is the light of both our lives. But from time to time, usually in the darkness of one of those sleepless nights of the midnight soul, I'll text my old pal Hattie Henderson. She's a mother of three now and lives a stay-at-home life in some shmancy town in Westchester—a lot's changed, but a lot hasn't. She is still my unpaid confessor. Like last night, when I wrote to her at 2 o'clock in the morning: Did you know I was fucking nuts back then? Hattie was up too. Like me, she has demons that no amount of bourgeois posturing can shake. At 2:15, she texted back: Everyone did! But all of us were kind of nuts then too. I wrote back: Don't tell. It would kill Walky, but sometimes I still miss Miguel so much I bite down on my own fist until it bleeds. There were little red pearls pooling on my knuckles. I stanched them with torn pieces of Kleenex the way Walker did when he cut his neck shaving. I looked at my hand and saw that the bleeding had stopped. So I crawled back into bed and closed my eyes. When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.
