We were both in a fervent state of uncharted creativity—me for the first time, him for the second. We pulled all-nighters and still managed to make love afterward. We critiqued each other’s work—brutally, lavishly, meticulously—not as teacher and pupil, but as collaborators. If I saw something lacking in his painting, I would pick up a brush and make my corrections directly on the canvas. If he read a digression in my story that petered out, he would excise it with a thick pencil stroke. Sometimes I would cry and rip up all my pages, but he would invariably collect the shreds out of the wastebasket and tape them back together.

Where did Arnold get his energy? From me, of course. But please don’t equate this with an old vampire drinking a maiden’s lifeblood. To offer someone you love energy when you are practically bursting with it feels heady and magnanimous.