We breathe. We live. We have friends. We lose friends. We have fights. Life goes on.

You may not like my memory — but I feel the need to say this:

Donald is my friend — 50ish years plus — longer than many of you are alive.

I was nobody. A model, a young bride to comedian Joey Adams who — like Ronald Reagan handled movie actors on the West Coast — was president of all the singers, dancers, variety performers on this East Coast.

Joey, political, emceed every VIP black-tie dinner at the Waldorf. A senator became president, Joey was at the mike. A prelate became a bishop, Joey commanded the speakers. For A-1 placement on a dais Roy Cohn had long back cultivated Joey. I meant nothing. I was just along.

At one Roy party I met young Donald. A smart kid fresh out of Wharton. I said to him, “So who are you?” Standing behind him Roy answered: “One day this kid is going to own New York.”

Decades later — 2016, and Roy long gone — we two stood all alone — Donald and I in the middle of a crowded room.

Silently we stared at half a dozen wall-size TVs. All predicting Donald Trump winner of the presidency of the United States. I have told this story before. I retell it now for a reason.

The family stood behind a wooden gate. Behind them, his team. Donald standing alone. Middle of the room. Nobody. Between our bodies and the wall TV — nobody — just Chris Christie and Rudy Giuliani.

Not one person with or near Donald. Nobody. Only me. Our bodies cemented to one another. He didn’t speak. I didn’t speak.

He said quietly only — only — “Do you remember what Roy Cohn said?” I said, “Yes,” and those were the only words that passed between us the night he first became president of the United States of America.

In 50 years, he was there when life fell hard for me. Joey’s illness meant us moving to another apartment. I’d just lost my mother. And father. I was alone. And no lawyer, accountant, adviser, financial consultant.

Donald brought in his team of contractors so they — wealthy or savvy about financial dealings — could create a safety system for me. When Joey passed on it was Donald who handled certain details.

I was nobody. Donald was a friend. You don’t forget a friend. The world needs friends. I knew him before he met Ivana, before he met Marla, before he met Melania. I’ve attended his weddings.

I remember when things went poorly for him. When his Atlantic City casino crashed and he had no money. I was on a junky little plane going somewhere with our then-Mayor David Dinkins.

We sat in front of hunched and crunched Donald who was stuffed into a tiny seat next to some whothehell knows nothing.

But he did not complain. Did not say, “Hey, look at me now.” He just took it. Exactly like he took it when that shooter got him.

I’d previously flown with him on his own private 757 to LA — then complete with kitchen, dressing room for Melania, office quarters. I realized then that giants don’t come in small sizes.

For his first inaugural I sat with Kellyanne Conway. Her then-husband’s entire job was to carry her mink jacket. I have those photos.

Early the day before this Election Day, Donald asked, “What do you think?” I said: “You’ll win but the margins are slim.”

Steve Bannon, only a few days out of prison, knew early. He told his 100 invitees crammed into the eighth floor of DC’s Willard Hotel: “We got it. No squeaker. We got it.”