I’m standing in the doorway of our bedroom as I say the words. My heart is content, peaceful, as I gaze with loving affection at my Rocket-man. He is oblivious to my presence. He’s in bed, comfy-cozy in his flannel, catching-up on whatever on his iPhone before it’s lights out. “I’m in love with another man,” I say. “Uh, huh,” was his reply as he tapped away on this iPhone. “His name is Andy.” That got his attention. Rocket-man looks up at me. “Andy?” “I love his voice. It’s soothing. He knows just how to make me relax.” “Andy who?” he asks again. Did I detect a scintilla of concern? Nah. He knows me!  Like the time I was head-over-heals for Stanley Tucci. For…