By George Gurley

February 12, 2006 | 7:00 p.m

Dear Hilly,

So we’ve been together for four years and we seem to be getting along better than ever. After I got off the phone with you earlier, I went from feeling cruddy, hopeless, purposeless, to wholly myself again. I need a pack of smokes for this. Nicorette will do. I guess what I want to say is: Thank you. For putting up with me and always seeing the better side of me, the idealized me, rather than the demon. He’s probably hibernating, but he might be gone. Hey—thanks for taming me. Yep, I think I’m fixed. Not neutered, but centered and, you know, stable-ish. Before you came into my life in early 2002, I had some bad habits. On a Monday night like this, I’d be finishing up a steak at the Palm, then I’d be off to shoot pool at Paddy McGuire’s, head down to Nancy Whiskey Pub, check out the strippers at Baby Doll Lounge, end up at the Village Idiot doing shots with barmaids. The night would have just begun. Then the Man and I would hook up with our female posse—those ladies I first met you with, at the Hog Pit? You claim I was rude or something that night. I just remember you in that Judas Priest T-shirt, figuring you were unattainable. Next my crew would head over to Marylou’s, hang with wannabe mobsters and media slummers, babble away until 4 a.m.; there’s no telling where I’d end up. Perhaps in another borough, stumbling along Kissena Boulevard at 7 a.m. Second time I met you was better. You were wearing a Mötley Crüe T-shirt and white jeans. At 3 a.m., after you started kissing me out of nowhere—something I’ll never forget—I suggested we start dating right then and there. And four years later, here we are, still together! For the first three years, the period between late December and February was rough, right? I had to deal with Christmas, New Year’s, your birthday, Valentine’s Day and our anniversary. It was just like: Where will it end? Sorry about that. Except for a few mini-breakdowns, I think I handled it well this year. I’m grateful to you—know why? First of all, you look great all the time, you really do. Sexy, healthy, all that. I see you and get a bounce in my step. And in a city full of aggressive, superficial, overambitious, perpetually unsatisfied, bigger-better-deal-type women, you are genuinely kind, considerate, funny. You have a good heart. I think I really lucked out! I know it took me a while to figure this out, but you are thoroughly sweet and totally uncorrupted. You never scowl. You never roll your eyes. When we’re out, you never flirt. You’re never on the lookout for Matt Dillon, Matt Damon, Jimmy Fallon, Ethan Hawke. You’re not like the other girls. I believe you when you say you have no romantic interest in Brad Pitt, Tommy Lee or David Lee Roth—he was into you that night, though, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that fun when we got tanked with him and I put him in a cab? Ha! I like our secret language, things only you and I know about. I’m sure some of it would horrify people, like when we baby-talk and play with our stuffed animals Piggie, Monkey and Sharkie. Thanks for putting up with my quirks and all my BS. Another thing. This regular sex business, the fact that we do it a lot? I like that. It centers me. I bet we might do it more if I moved down to the ­Village. I’ve kind of had it with the ­Upper West Side. I could see getting a place close to you and the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. Guess what? I have no interest in any other women. I mean it. You’re right, they’re skanks. Not all of them, but I know what you mean. Sorry about going to that strip bar the other night, but that was for work. Yeah, I’m tame now, thanks to you, and I like it. O.K., it’s 11:35 p.m. Look, I need to go for a walk. I’m going to have two drinks at Yogi’s, play some Chuck Berry, and I’ll be right back. Need some air. Smokes. A head-clearing walk. Actually, never mind—I’ll stay in tonight with the cat and Mary Tyler Moore on DVD. I do need a walk, though. I’ll be right back. It’s not even midnight. It’s nice out. O.K., it’s 5:30 a.m. I’m back. No idea what happened. If you had been here, I would have stayed in. So I stopped by Yogi’s. There were 29 dudes, two women, one barmaid: sausage party. So I had one beer and took off. Decided to call it quits, come home, watch Mary Tyler Moore. However, I found myself at the crossroads, on Amsterdam and 76th. Right by Chirping Chicken. The demon took hold, forced me to the left, uptown: Thought I’d check out Bourbon Street bar. One more beer, maybe a shot. Watched college hoops. Guzzled two beers. A young, well-dressed, glazed-eyed dude asked me for a smoke. Then for two more cigs and a light; he said he was with two fussy, demanding gals. “You sound like me,” I said. “No problem at all.” Ten minutes later, I went looking for him and asked for my matches back. He fiddled around, tried to strike a match right there. I grabbed at the matches. He held them tight. I grabbed at them again. He yanked them away again, then tossed them to the floor and gave me a “What are you gonna do about it?” look. I picked up the matches, gave him a light shove, stepped outside, fired up a Parliament Light. Took seven or eight pulls, then walked back in, stepped up to the dude, offered him matches and a half-assed apology. “Get lost,” he said. Sat back down. Nervous. Walked out. Waited for dude and his pals to follow me. Nothing. Then a couple beers here and there: Gin Mill. Brother Jimmy’s. George McHeeley’s bar. One more Yuengling. Pondered going home. Headed down to the Dead Poet, peeked in. Barmaid who works there hates me (long story). She wasn’t there. So I walked in. Guy named Oongi said, “Hey, what’s up, dude?” Didn’t recognize him at first. I played pool with his friend, Emily, a 23-year-old actress. Stayed an hour. Emily kicked my ass. I tried to persuade them to accompany me to Bungalow 8. Failed. Took off, walked five blocks, realized I didn’t want to head downtown alone, so I got in a cab and I headed right back to Dead Poet. I eventually left with Emily, arrived at Bungalow 8 at 3 a.m. Stayed awhile. Caught up with old friends. Now it’s 6:10 a.m. Still dark out. Duke Ellington on. Hilly, let’s get down to brass tacks. All that sweet-suffering and romantic-loss post-adolescent business, pining for girls I fell for in college—that’s over. That ended circa 1999. I have no idea how it happened, but you are the only woman in my life. I lucked out. Seriously, if you ever wanted to leave me, I understand. Fact is, you’re exceptional, smart, gorgeous. You hit the jackpot. O.K., so you want to go to Mr. Chow for your birthday/our fourth anniversary. Whatever you say, baby. Sweetheart, I know I’ve only said “I love you” once or twice when I was drunk, early on in our relationship, but more recently I did say “I Heart You”—let me do my best to rectify that. Let me sit next to you on the Spanish Steps or somewhere and tell you how much you mean to me. I need a smoke. Wait. Remember when I first met you, I confessed two things? First, that pattern of mine—I’d find someone I really liked, the kind of person I could build something with, and then I’d proceed to screw things up within a month? Then suffer, be obsessed, go nuts for two or 10 years. That’ll never happen, I promise. Look, I gotta go to sleep. You’re my girl and that’s all there is to it. Won’t you please be my Valentine?