but the way they make your mind tickle, your heart race
and your soul smile, all at once.
—Wordions
We're colleagues in the editing department of Libris House.
I’m forty-five and she’s twenty-five, and of course, it never can be.
I've known her less than a week and here we are we’re in jazz noir bar, and to be honest, nothing makes sense to me.
Am I ridiculous or just being carried along by the drift of events, observing where all this may all lead?
The jazz set comes to an end, and I turn to her “Are you really enjoying this?”
I keep expecting the age difference to suddenly swallow us in a yawning chasm, but so far it hasn’t.
She turns her huge eyes on me and my stomach flips. “Answer me this: do you like being with me?”
“You can’t answer a question with a question,” I parry.
“Well,” she smiles, “if you say yes, you have your answer.”
I stare into her eyes a bit too long and her smile tells me all I need to know.
We go out into the November cold and she grabs my arm and asks, “where are you taking me now?”
I was thinking the rooftop lounge of the Park Hotel with its candlelit tables, but I opt for the Firken pub in the basement of the Flatiron Building.
It doesn’t matter where I take her—she transforms a room just by being in it.
It’s past twelve when I’m driving her home and she says, “I want to see your condo.”
“Really—you’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” she smiles.
I follow the familiar route home and everything is blurred as in a dream.
When I open the apartment door, Winnie, my long hair calico cat, is all over her, as if she’s known her all her life.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” she says, “the skyline is spectacular from up here.”
“A penthouse view,” I say, “I don’t get tired of it.” And I might as well have added, or tired of looking at you.
She looks so lovely standing by the windows silvered by moonlight.
I light a fire and we sip rum hot chocolate and stare at the view.
She’s found a Rod Stewart album of Thirties hits and the mood is mellow and I’m wondering where this can possibly go.
And then she breaks the mood.
“I’m supposed to go to New York tomorrow,” she says.
“You have friends there?”
“You might say that,” she says and stares.
My stomach flutters but not in good way. Her smile is gone and she seems sad, almost depressed.
“Is it a guy?”
She nods, “A lawyer I met when I went with Marisa, my friend. We went clubbing and we seemed to hit it off.”
“So, you’re going back to see if anything’s there?”
She looks far off into the distance. “That was the plan.”
It’s crazy but I sense she’s testing my reaction to see if I care. And I want to tell her, don’t go, stay with me, but I can’t—that’s just too insane, even for me.
“Well maybe you owe it to yourself to find out,” I say lamely.
She doesn’t answer—just stares out into the night.
A long silence falls between us—even Winnie, my calico, backs off and gives her space.
Finally, she gets up and reaches for her coat. “I should get going.”
“I’ll drive you home,” I say, getting to my feet.
“No, don’t bother—there’s a taxi stand downstairs. I’ll grab a cab.”
“I don’t mind,” I try to reassure her, but she’s adamant. “Really, I’ll be fine. I need to clear my head.”
I offer to pay her cab fare but she refuses and I walk her to the door.
“Have fun on the weekend,” I whisper, and she grabs me and gives me a long hug.
“Take care while I’m gone,” she laughs, “and listen to some jazz for me.”
I know the kind of songs I’ll listen to, and I don’t tell her but they’ll all be blue.
The door closes behind her, and I’m left in the dark with Rod Stewart in the background singing, The Very Thought of You.
So foolish and vain, the thought of her and me. I touch her cup to my lips to savour the lipstick taste of what might have been.
And then, she’s standing in the doorway, in a shaft of golden light.
“I can’t leave,” she whispers. “I'd be too sad without you.”
She closes the door as another one opens on the next part of our lives.