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Three years ago, my lover died. I was lost in grief, and did not believe I would ever love again. Eventually, my grief abated to be replaced by the languidness of loss. I became even more convinced that I would never love again, as through the tales of woe told by female friends and relatives, I realised that men my own age were more interested in younger women. Imagine my amazement when, over the course of a year, I met not one, but two, younger men who were interested in me. It was flattering, but I was anything but interested in younger men, and still remain ambivalent about the idea.
However, one long, sunlit-filled afternoon, not long after that year, I shared a conversation with three old friends whom I had not seen for some time. These three women have three things in common. They are all of a certain age, they are all still attractive, and they are all loved by much younger men.
Despite these three similarities, each is different in style and personality. Yasmin is a vivacious beauty, career-oriented, restless; Claire is confident and sultry, strong-minded, strong-willed; Melanie is insecure but warm, vibrant, a lovely woman. Yet they all had one story to tell – that age is no teacher.
As I listened to them speak, I became uncannily aware of what was not being said, of what was implied, of things that were sensed but not known. Every nuance of voice and gesture, every word spoken, every averted gaze told me so much. I felt I knew their young men. I felt as though I had been there, watching each story unfold. I felt incredibly voyeuristic and it was a luscious sensation. Oh yes, I realise it was probably just my imagination running wild, the romantic meanderings of a woman who has spent a little too much time in solitude. But who knows? When does a subtle sensing of the truth behind words spoken cross the border line to be nothing more than a flight of fancy? All I know is this is what I saw.
The story of the first woman:
They meet unexpectedly on the street, and strike up an ordinary conversation. It is a while since they have seen each other, but both are glad of this meeting. Yasmin is an older woman; Hugh, a much younger man. In their minds, they have already decided that there can be nothing other than friendship between them – she is beginning the end of her life, he is just ending the beginning. It is ridiculous that they should even consider anything more. Yet, despite the dictates of rational thought, there are sparks and flashes that signal the unacknowledged presence of something deeper than friendship.
They greet each other.
“Hello!” he says, delight breaking rapturously across his face.
“Hey, how are you?” She is so very pleased to see him, but nothing about her betrays the flurry of emotion she feels in his presence.
“Long time, no see, stranger.”
She laughs. “I’ve been up north working for the past four months. It’s not a bad place to be, but it’s good to be back home. I miss the climate, my friends, the coffee!”
They both laugh and, for a moment, have nothing to say.
He cannot take his eyes from her face. Although he is fascinated by the curve of her cheek and the soulfulness of her eyes, he is also attracted to her for her maturity and wisdom. She has experienced much, lived a full life. Some of what she has seen has been good, very good, but some of her life has been terrible and dark. He suspects that many of her journeys into the darker side of her being have not been without profound effect, but he cannot imagine the nature of these effects. He realises that her travails and torments have shaped her, for better or worse, for she sometimes runs from that which she should face. He does not know she runs from fear of the pain she knows too well, the sharp, gutting pain of confrontation and betrayal, and she has died on her own sword countless times. Nonetheless, what would have made others bitter or sour, has somehow honeyed her nature. She is as radiant as she is shadowy, warmly vibrant, yet silkily serene.
He senses this juxtaposition of dark knowing and illuminated resolution, and wants so much to know of it more deeply. Yet if you were to ask him, he would not be able to define it, to name what is was he wanted. He only knows that he wants it.
“It’s good to see you”. His words are soft, and they almost betray his longing.
“It’s good to see you too. You look well, really well.”
She is attracted to him for the surety and the energy of his youth. He believes himself to be master of his destiny, therefore he will be. He has his life mapped out, and has the vigour and shining belief to make it happen.
“You too. What are you doing now? Do you have time for a coffee?”
“No, unfortunately, I don’t. I’ve got a meeting with a client in about 15 minutes. But I’m not in a rush.’ She does not want this meeting to end yet, not yet. “What are you up to lately?”
“I’m seeing travel agents about going overseas for a couple of years. Perhaps backpacking, perhaps a working holiday, perhaps a bit of both”.
They both laugh, yet she is sad. She does not like the idea of not seeing him again, but she knows it must be this way. She has no claim on him.
“I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do at this stage but I need to get away from here – expand my horizons so to speak”. And I need to leave you, so I can put you out of my mind, he thinks.
“Good for you. Where are you thinking of going?”
He has often told her of his desire to travel, to see new places, meet new people. She wishes she could tell him what she knows, that travelling is more than a physical journey, that it is also a journey of the heart, mind, and spirit. Some never leave their place of birth, but travel far into the most hidden reaches of the psyche. Some travel to all corners, to every nook and cranny, of the world, but barely tread the paths to those inner destinations. Some, the luckiest and wisest, travel extensively and intensively throughout both inner and outer realms. She sees that he has travelled a little everywhere, but not enough to know that he only thinks he is master of his destiny. He is yet to uncover who he really is. She would like to be there, to see him blossom, but she knows she cannot do so.
“The UK , probably, and then I’ll travel through Europe, and possibly Asia . Too hard to get work in Europe or Asia if you don’t speak another language.”
“True. Haven’t thought of learning French, or Chinese?
“Um, no. If you’d heard my attempts at Japanese in high school, you’d understand why!”
“I know what you mean. I’m not much good at languages myself. Not one of my better skills.”
They are laughing, enjoying this conversation. They know they like each other, but there is nothing more. Or is there? She is smiling at him. He loves her smile. The way she looks up into his eyes, then permits her lips to curve upwards into a sweet crescent, stops time and sends the world spinning past him. He would like to capture the moment and hold it, but it always eludes his grasp.
“But you have so many other talents. You blow me away with the things you do.”
The intensity of his gaze is almost overwhelming, yet she is not afraid. She has been overwhelmed by the promises hidden in a man’s eyes more than once in her life. Not this time. She loves the deep, measured clarity of his eyes. Oceans of memory, his past and future, all contained in their abyssal blueness; her past, her future reflected back to her. He reminds her of this long lost love, and that one, yet he is none of them, only himself.
“You’re an amazing woman.”
She reminds him of no-one he has previously met, not in this life anyway. Strangely, there is something about her that is uncannily familiar, and has been since the moment he first saw her.
Yet there is nothing between them.
“Why thank you, Hugh. I’m touched.” She smiles boldly into his eyes.
He reaches over and softly caresses her arm; this is the first time he has touched her since they met so many months ago. Her face softens, her eyes, suddenly dark and shy, look up at him questioningly. His hand is no longer a thing of substance, but a thought, a desire, reaching through to the recesses of her hopes and longings.
He sees her question and her doubts, and wants to kiss her. The promise of it lingers on the warm fragrant air, a delicious imagined joy, awaiting fulfilment.
Time has stopped. They stand immobile, revealed to each other for the first time. She is warmth and fluidity, he is coolness and strength, she, fire and water, he, ether and earth.
There can be nothing between them, save the air they both breathe, and the ground beneath their feet.
He is the future, she is the past. Still both are in the present, and are the present, and what else can they live for, except the present? Imperceptibly, they move towards each other.
Each can feel the other’s heart beat, and the barriers of limitation between them are beginning to dissolve. They are so close, so close to something that is so much more than nothing.
A lone bird calls loudly as it leaps into the air, winging toward the furthest reaches of an impatiently waiting sky. Time starts again. The moment is gone.
How strange! She does not remember not breathing but she feels so light-headed, so disassociated from the world outside the circle of her and him, she must have held her breath, if only for a moment. She looks away quickly. She does not want him to see into her face again, but her sharp intake of breath gives away more than she would wish. He has glimpsed her most secret desires.
“Well, I suppose I should go on my way now. My client awaits,” she says lightly.
He would very much like to make love with her, to unleash that unspoken attraction, and let it run rampant. Yet he now remembers that he is afraid of getting involved. She is almost twice his age, and he knows his parents and friends would not think it proper. He does not think he can withstand their disapproval. He does not know if he could love her enough to overcome this, and if he should fail? He could never forgive himself if he hurt her.
“Yeh, me too. It’s been really nice seeing you again.”
She is relieved. Despite her feelings, she doesn’t want to get involved with him. He is too young for her, too young in years, but only in years, not in his soul, in his spirit. In these, they are the same age. However, years matter. She is past her youth, still lively, still attractive, but for how long? How could she not feel ashamed to look so much older then he? Could he love her enough so that it didn’t matter? She would like to believe that they could overcome this but does not dare. It is too much to hope for.
“Yes, you too. See you later.”
“Bye. See you.”
And so they separate. Their desires and fears remain unspoken. After all, this was just an ordinary conversation.
The story of the second woman:
They were lovers once. Not that long ago. To this day Claire cannot think why she took him to her bed. He was so young, well past boyhood, but not yet fully in manhood.
It had been a moment of weakness and confusion, a moment of flattery and desire. Adrian was young but very beautiful, with that transitory, almost painful beauty that can only be possessed by boy-men. He was at that point of life where a young man’s face displays none of the edges of manhood, but is still soft, gentle, when his still developing body is lean and muscular, more muscular than a youth, but not possessing the sinewy toughness of a man. He was of an age when a young man is free to, almost compelled to, strut as proudly as a peacock so he may impress all who survey him. Desired by both females and other males, but only taken by those he chooses.
Yet she did not do the taking. For some reason, she still cannot fathom, he chose, and pursued, her. She supposed he had heard rumours, myths about the sexual prowess of older women, perhaps even had some experience of it which he wished to further. She had often wondered if he had already had on older lover. It was clear that he came to her no virgin.
That is what took her by surprise. That one so young should so deftly work her emotions, play her desire, so that she did not care about anything other that the need to feel his body against hers, his lips burning her skin, exploring every part of her flesh.
The pursuit had been shockingly short. She almost never indulged her desires until she was certain of the tenor of an affair. Since that one boy in her teens, that one destructive foray into the worst and most wayward of her emotions, she had shunned tumultuous relationships. Love for her needed to be a safe haven. Not that it ever truly was. She had spent too many hours alone, wondering where it had all gone wrong, to believe in love’s safety anymore. But a least she had successfully avoided pointless passions – those reckless inclinations that lead you to believe you are more alive with a certain lover than you could ever be without him. It was such a foolish notion, one that persisted even while it devastated your life and ensured you made a complete fool of yourself.
In hindsight, she had been ready to fall, to be jolted from the complacent comfort of avoidance. And he did it so well. He would be a dangerously seductive man some day, she thought.
The affair had only lasted six weeks. Somewhere around week five, she had become afraid. Afraid that she was falling hopelessly in love with him, terrified at the impossibility of a life together.
They had met a mutual friend’s birthday party. The group of people she called her friends had always been an eclectic mix of ages and predilections, so she had not been surprised to see him there. He had been fun to talk too, intelligent and charming, so she had felt comfortable giving him one of her phone numbers. She hadn’t really expected him to call.
He called often. In the week following the party, he called every day, cajoling and tormenting her, talking endlessly on the phone, about everything, about nothing. By the next week, they were lovers. One meeting in a café, another in a bar, one lingering coffee-flavoured kiss, one heart stopping welcome embrace – that was all it took for her to discard her long-treasured caution, as if it were merely a chrysalis cocooning her true self.
Weeks three and four were a blur of sensations and pleasure, so much pleasure. Nights when she lay completely open for him, to taste her, touch her, take her, whatever way he wanted, however she wished. His willingness to explore her and to illuminate the map of her desire was matched only by her need to be explored by him, to be conquered by his desire, and vanquished by her own pleasure, over and over again. Week five was marked by the cold of her growing fears, and then remarkably, in week six, he announced that he had a job opportunity in another state, so in week six, she ended it. He had not wanted to end it, so he said. But he did not press her to continue, and had left her without too much fuss.
She had been relieved but a little disappointed and embarrassed. Obviously his feelings for her were only sexual, and to admit – if only to herself – that she, someone of so much more experience, was falling for him, was a little humiliating. Nonetheless, at least she was safe once more. She doubted she would see him again, not for along time anyway.
But here they are, sitting across from each other in her lounge room. He is not happy with her.
He had rung her earlier in the week. She had not been home, but he had left numerous messages on her answering service asking her to ring him back. She had not returned his calls. So, tonight he had turned up on her doorstep. She should have guessed that he would, should have remembered the impetuousness of youth. She’d certainly enough experience of its railroading force.
But as always she had forgotten that knowledge, buried the memories of that other young man, who loved her but hated loving her, hated the commitment he couldn’t make. He would have done exactly the same thing, turned up on her doorstep, angry and irrational, demanding to be heard.
“I met a friend of yours,” he snaps. She didn’t like the way he emphasized the word “friend”.
“Really? Who?”
“Geoffrey,” says he.
“Oh yes. I’ve known Geoff for quite a while. We worked together last year. He’s a lovely guy.”
“Yeh? He seems pretty keen on you.”
Again, that snaky inflection in his voice.
Sensing a crucial moment, she does not say or do anything. There had been a strong attraction between her and Geoffrey, but nothing had come of it. He was married and she did not get involved with married men. Yet Adrian seemed to think otherwise. She wonders what was said. She does not really want to know.
“Is that so? I’m surprised. We get along well but nothing’s ever happened to make me think there was anything more.”
This is not true. There had been many moments - a too-long holding of her hand, a too-slow kiss on her cheek, an embrace which was more an invitation to intimacy than the welcome of a friend.
“It takes a lot to make you think there is anything more.”
She freezes in guilt and astonishment. Oh, that was unexpected. She says nothing.
“I want to know the truth – did you end it with me to have an affair with him?”
“No, God, no.”
He was sitting before her, his lovely face stormy, his eyes dark with hurt.
“Oh, Adrian , no.”
Her heart suddenly aches. He really is young, so very young. She had not seen it, had failed to see through his bravado and confidence to the vulnerability of inexperience beneath. She was too caught up in her own burgeoning sensuality, too obsessed with her own fears. She had used him, with the best of intention, but used him, nonetheless.
“Please don’t lie to me. I need to know.” He cannot not hide his emotion, yet his sense of self-preservation demands that he gave it minimal expression. He chokes it back instead.
She can only tell the truth.
“No, Adrian. I did not have an affair with him. There was some attraction, yes, but my reason for ending it with you was that I was afraid. You are so many years younger than me that I could see no future for us. And I was falling in love with you.”
Incredulity, then hope, flushes his face, and he darts forward to kneel at her feet, taking her face in his hands as a prelude to the kiss.
“Please don’t,” she says and turns her face away.
“But I love you.”
Her heart aches so for him, for his innocent belief. She knows what he is going through, remembers the blind hope of young love so well. She sees this in him, but still she does not dare acknowledge her own feelings.
“Nothing’s changed Adrian . I can’t go on with this.”
She knows what will follow. Next there will be the protestations, the declarations of love, the reasons why it would work, the reasons why it must work. She suddenly can’t bear to hear it all. This was the difference between age and youth. Age knows what will come next and does not want to face it; youth does not know and wants only to meet it head on.
But no, he says nothing. He gently touches the contours of her face with his fingertips, strokes one cheekbone with his thumb. His expression is tender, so sweetly tender.
She cannot not help herself, cannot not stop the tears that flowed unwanted, unheeded. He softly kisses her forehead, as a father would a child.
Why did he always do this to her? Turn the tables so that he was age and she was youth.
“I understand, but I am here for you if … when you want me.”
She looks up taken aback by the return of his bravado. Had he just been playing with her? He is laughing at her, but there is something darkly sad behind that laugh.
She smiles. He kisses her cheek and leaves.
A few days later she passes him in the street. He shrinks back a little and smiles wanly, uncertain of her mood toward him.
She turns toward him, and smiles joyfully into his eyes. She knows she loves him, but she also knows that she cannot allow too fast a denouement. As he returns her smile, their hands reach out for each other, clasp briefly, and linger in parting. She walks on.
They will meet again; but not too soon. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
The story of the third woman:
Youth has not deserted Melanie; it has merely wandered away to distance itself from the numbers that proclaim her years of living. Nonetheless, she has realised that no man may ever love her again. Not because she is unattractive. She is not, although the signs of age taunt her cruelly in a certain light, and she was never a great beauty, even in her youth. No, it is something she knows in her bones. However much she longs for a man’s caress, dreams of feeling his warm breath in her hair, aches for the encompassing strength of his arms around her body, his hands lying gently over her breasts, she cannot believe it will ever happen. She is growing old, and what man wants an old woman?
She does not blame the men. She too would desire a younger woman if she was in their shoes. Who would not want warm smooth flesh, and clean curvaceous lines over dimples, sags and wrinkles? Who cares about the woman beneath, the richness of her love, the wealth of her experience, the sparkle of her intellect, the fire of her passion, who cares about such things in the primal wildness of the sexual act when all that matters is heady sensation? No one. Certainly not she. That is why she knows that no man will ever love her again. She is too old to be loved, to be cherished. For some women this is never true; for her, it is already becoming fact. She is shrivelling up from lack of love, withering from the loss of being desired. She is fading into her lost dreams, distant from the love of any man.
And yet, in many ways, this has been so for all her adult life. In truth, the only man who has ever made her feel truly loved, made her believe she was the most desirable, most beautiful woman in existence, was homosexual. She has often wondered why. Is it because he adored her despite not wanting to sleep with her? Did he see something in her that no heterosexual man ever has? She believes the first is closer to the truth. To be thought of as desirable, as a sexual being to flirt with and tease, hold and kiss, with no reason for doing so other than the pleasure of each thing in itself, with no end point, no goal, was a heady experience, at least for her. With any other man, there had always been the thought that his desire could be for any woman, not just for her, that she could even be a substitute for some woman he could not have. She had never felt this with her gay friend. His eyes, his words, were for her, and her alone.
Who would have thought that the love of a man who would never make love to her should impact so severely on her life? Yet, she was the only woman in his life, and when he died, he took a part of her with him. She had always thought that somehow she must take back that part of her, that realisation of her as the adored woman, she must take this back if she is to halt the decay of her spirit to live and to love. But she has never sone so. Such things are not easy, and take so much time. She has never had the chance to really begin again.
She is drinking coffee in a downtown café. It is small, dark and quiet, furnished with old wooden tables and chairs, none of which match. There is ‘art for sale’ on the walls, local artists, some very good, some merely pedestrian, but all for sale. The café opens onto the street, leafy with trees and shrubs. Traffic is thin in this area, so there is little disturbance from the sounds of cars, buses and motorbikes.
A young man is staring at her.
At first she tries to ignore him, but her eyes keep being drawn to his face. His gaze does not flinch away when it meets hers. No, it is she that turns back. She thinks that he is very good looking, and quite a few years younger than her; therefore his attention is more unnerving than it would normally be. She cannot for the life of her think why he would be staring at her.
Perhaps he is a serial killer, or a shyster who preys on older women in need of love. Yet he does not look evil, then, they never do. She wants him to leave first, she is afraid that if she leaves first he may follow her. Suddenly, he is standing beside her table. He is tall, and unbelievably handsome. He is wearing some fragrance that reminds her of her gay friend, yet is subtly different, and infinitely more intoxicating. She realises she is holding her breath, trying not breathe him, his perfume, his handsomeness. She exhales slowly, carefully.
He smiles. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
She thinks, no, definitely not. She says, “Yes. Thank you.”
He sits at her table and calls the waitress over. She watches him as he orders. He is very confident, very sure of his attractiveness to women. He has charmed the waitress who does not seem to realise that he is sitting at the table with another woman. But then, the waitress is young and very pretty, she would not believe that she has to fear any competition from an older woman. Why should she? Youth is a prize, and the waitress will be won many times. With that unshakeable confidence so strong in young women, she knows it. What she does not know is that one day she will be won no more, and will not be worth winning.
Ah, the small joys of being an older woman! Age does have its advantages, even if these are merely the sweet maliciousness of acquired knowledge.
He is staring at her again. “You’re smiling,” he says. “I think that is the first time I have ever seen you smile.”
She is surprised and discomforted. “How long have you been watching me?”
“I’ve seen you here on and off over the past month.”
But I’ve never noticed you, she thinks. How could I not have noticed you, with your beautiful face and gracious presence?
They talk. His name is Joel and he is an actor. One of those rare things, he laughingly tells her, a working actor. He is performing a play in the theatre down the street. She thinks that she must check the billboards to see if it is so, to see if he is who he says he is, if he is real.
She cannot deny that she is attracted to him, but she cannot let it show. Her attraction to him is a ridiculous thing – he is at least 10 years younger then she, maybe more. Why would he be attracted to her? Yet he is here, sitting opposite her, talking to her as though she were a friend.
Suddenly she realises that he is telling her about his girlfriend. Her barely acknowledged hopes plummet and shatter into shards of humiliation. Idiot, she thinks. He’s looking for a mother figure, someone to talk to about his relationship problems. He is saying:
“She wants to get engaged but I’m not so sure.”
“Then don’t do it,” she snaps. “Don’t be so stupid as to lead the poor girl on, if you don’t know what it is you want from her.” The last thing she wants is to get into a conversation about some young man’s commitment problems. Really, she’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.
He regards her coolly. “I have no intention of leading her on. What I wanted to say was that I hadn’t been sure since I first saw you”.
For a moment, she feels as though he has slapped her, knocked the breath out of her body. She can feel him looking at her, searching her face with his dark liquid eyes. She blushes, and struggles to find somewhere to look where she will not see him, where the confusion that plays over her features will be hidden from his eyes, and from the prying eyes of others. She feels the whole world is watching.
Finally she manages, “What do you mean?”
“I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She hesitantly raises her eyes to his face and laughs shyly. “Thinking someone is beautiful is no basis for questioning a relationship. But thank you. It’s a long time since anyone thought I was beautiful.”
He reaches over and cups her face between his thumb and forefinger. His hands are so warm, so gentle. She intends to draw away from him, but, instead, closes her eyes momentarily and rests there.
“How do you know other men don’t think you’re beautiful?” he asks.
Her eyes flicker open. “Because no-one tells me so.”
“Perhaps no-one thinks you need telling anymore.”
She laughs aloud. “Then they are fools.”
He takes his hand away from her face and smiles at her, tenderly, with joy. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
His smile fades. “Do I need to explain further?”
“Yes. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t assume anything. You almost always will get it wrong if you do.”
He is sitting back in his chair. The aura of confidence that surrounded him earlier has dissipated. He looks unsure, and exposed.
Suddenly he leans forward and kisses her on the mouth, softly, sweetly but so surely. Her heart stops, time stops, there is just his lips on hers, his eyes, she is swimming in his eyes, his hand on her chin, his thumb gently stroking just below her lower lip, the pressure of his lips, insistent, caressing, oh … this cannot be happening.
Then, the kiss is ended. When did it end? She does not know. I am trembling, she thinks. I cannot feel my breath. Am I breathing? She exhales, a short, sharp gasp. Yes, I am still breathing.
He is holding her hand. Suddenly she is overwhelmed with sadness.
I am too old for him. Tears begin to well.
“Don’t cry,” he says.
“I am too old for you,” she says.
“You are only if you believe you are.” She is struck by the faith in his voice, but does not share it.
“But I do believe I am, and I don’t know how to change that.”
He draws back from her again. He looks defeated, sad. “Then I’ve lost you,” he says, but so quietly, she wonders whether the words were for her ears, or only for his.
“I should go,” she says. “Thank you for the coffee. Thank you … for everything.”
She leaves. Her body feels so heavy as though it has turned to lead. Each step is agony, each heart beat, agony, each breath. How can someone I have just met have this effect on me? she thinks. Because I am an old fool. If I were young, I’d believe love could conquer all. But I am not young. I am afraid and I don’t wish to believe in love.
Something in Melanie rebels and breaks her unwillingness wide open. She turns and sees him standing in the street, looking after her. She walks toward him as he walks to meet her halfway. Now, they are face-to-face.
“Look. I can’t promise anything. But I do like you, Joel. I’d like to get to know you better. But I can’t promise anything.”
“No-one ever can.” He takes her hand in both of his. “But it would be good to know you better.”
She looks into his face, it is full of hope. I had forgotten about hope, she thinks, and smiles warmly. He smiles back. Everything they need to begin is in that moment. Who can predict what may come of this? she thinks.
****
I agree. Who indeed? I left my three friends that afternoon with the realisation that we will never know everything there is to know about ourselves, even as we lay dying. The predictability of age is a lie and unpredictability a mighty teacher. Love, even truth, may lie in an ordinary conversation, in the promise of tomorrow, or in making a beginning.
Love and truth. You never know when or where either will find you.
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