I felt compelled to speak to him. I can’t say why. I think it was his face. Perfection; angular, a quick smile coupled with a quiet, lonely manner. I didn’t talk to him for a long time. I spent the majority of my time staring at him. I attempted discretion, but rarely have I been so taken by pure esthetics, nor have I ever been accused of mastering subtlety.
I mean, George Clooney is beautiful but part of his appeal is his actual or imagined charm. I didn’t even know if this man had a voice. He could be a mute for all I knew. And, I should define man, over twenty-one, but barely. I was uncomfortable with how attracted I was to him, being twice his age.
I immediately talked myself in and out of the differing postures my multiple personalities take on the topic of younger men. Younger men are far more interested in me than men my own age, by ten to one, at least. I can only attribute the phenomenon to unresolved mommy issues and my obvious lack of maturity.
I recognize all the common taboos attached to the perception of Mrs. Robinson, a forty year-old social anathema that had shamed me from participating in any potentially nefarious activity before. I’m not sure why. It could be that tight, purse-lipped, foot-tapping, sin-assigning Irish Catholic inception; that roots in me, inherent.
I hardly acquiesce to her but she triggers my anxiety; takes my breath as I anticipate judgment. I catch and continue, weighted. Still, I recognize how society views such entanglements, at least among my inner quorum, my internal guild, rife with nuns, and hurt, self-loathing fat girls in various stages of disrepair. I know the intent; to cheapen it, allege taboo upon it, find a self-injurious resolution to assure it remains dormant. Part of me buys into it every time; it keeps her alive, vital. I can feel her celebrate as she crawls back under her rock. My inner ogre rewarded.
She’d be angered by my defiance but knows her contributions are limited. She’ll mutter.
I know who and what I am. I may be afraid of all those who comprise my single being but we are well acquainted. My apprehension about giving a beautiful man a compliment was ridiculous, beneath me. This was no longer about him. It became my own private suffragette. I was spiting the whole organization with this one, less than bold, gesture.
“You have a perfect face.”
“Perfect for what?” he smiled.
My first thought mercifully stopped at my mouth.
“Nothing in particular. Just perfect.”
He was stunning.
“Thank you. No one has ever said that to me.”
“I won’t be the last.”
I had the most erotic dream about him that night. I almost felt guilty about it.