Deirdre was the friend I had told Coral about--my friend who was a girl. Deirdre lived a plane-ride away now; all settled in with her new boyfriend. She and I had always connected, and now that she'd turned thirty, we connected all the more.
"Hey, Deirdre," I said, positioning my chair in the door jamb of my walk-in closet, "I got to hear your take on this guy--this insane professor at my school. See, Ezra's my age and totally straight, but, see, he wakes up one day to find he's no longer attracted to women his age. So, see, out of respect for women his age, he up and chooses not to have sex with the younger women he is attracted to. Ever hear of such insanity?"
"You mean he doesn't have sex at all?"
"Right," I said, taking a seat. "A celibate till death parts him out."
"How young are the women he is attracted to?"
"Twenty-somethings."
"Huh, sounds like you."
"Ya, well," I said, settling into my place of power, "I find twenty-somethings attractive, all right. But I'm attracted to older women too. I can totally see myself making love to a woman my age, if she looked . . . if I loved her enough."
"You're so full of shit."
I didn't say anything.
"When I first met you, you told me you were through with twenty-somethings. Since I've known you, you've gotten involved with three different twenty-somethings. It's like a sickness. Like an addiction."
"No way. I can easily switch to older women. It's just that in my world, I meet tons of twenty-somethings. Not so many thirty and forty-year-olds."
"Maybe you should find new hunting grounds."
"I have--book stores. But, see, the thirty-somethings I met there were desperate to make babies. And the forty-somethings already had kids."
Deirdre didn't say anything.
That's what I liked about Deirdre; she gave a stand-up guy the pause he needed to deliver the punch line. I stood up. "But I like hunting, plan to do some more. No, those book stacks, fat with game; no end to the quality stalking a guy can do there."
Deirdre's all-out laugh filled my heart like a meal. It hit me then; I hadn't had a full meal since I'd last talked with Deirdre. Hungry, I headed over to my windows to pace.
"How sad," Deirdre said, recovering, "no love for Anton."
"That's not entirely true. See, I talk every Sunday with this girl--woman at work. It's a good gig actually; way better than a traditional relationship."
"How's that?"
"Well, I'm attracted to this woman, and talking with her once a week is sort of like sipping away at love. And, see, sipping away at love is way better than downing that daily dose of Drano where a full-blown relationship is concerned."
Deirdre let go another all-out laugh. How I loved her laugh. And her raw voice; how sexy it was over the phone. What a raw deal Deirdre wasn't my type.
Hoping to get another laugh out of Deirdre, I added, "Then again, I know myself. Know the day's coming when I'll lose my brains, throw away my freedom, dive headlong into some woman again. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I just can't seem to live by the words I choose to live by."
Deirdre didn't laugh. "I know what's wrong with you--you need to grow up."
"Ya, well, Deirdre, that's the price we imaginative types pay for making it through childhood with our imaginations intact." A journal entry of mine came to mind. Always the giver, I thought I'd share. "Sure, society loves its creative geniuses. But what society loves even more is to spurn the child that comes with the creative package."
Deirdre, a painter, was familiar enough with this dichotomy--she'd battled the child in her by way of substance abuse, by way of abusive boyfriends. But she laughed anyway. "That's what I miss in you, Anton."
I stopped pacing. "What," I said, "the child in me?"
"No. The shit in you. So, who's this woman you talk to?"
I walked over to the only painting I had on my wall. "Her name's Coral; a student at school."
"What do you talk about?"
"It doesn't really matter." This painting on my wall was a present from Deirdre. A portrait she'd painted of me. Looking myself in the eyes, I offered up this half-truth. "Our thing is to go back and forth, pretending we don't have a thing for one another."
"A student?" Deirdre said. "Ah, another twenty-something. Anton, you're sick, we need to get you into rehab."
"I'm not sick. See, Coral's not a twenty-something. Ya, turned nineteen just yesterday." I laughed.
Deirdre didn't. "What next, Anton, twelve-year-olds?"
"Oh, come on; I'm no pervert. What man doesn't get a thing for a nineteen-year-old every now and again. I mean, I'm no dog like other guys. I'm not out to mount her or anything. Gol."
"Yes, I can see you got it all squared away in that square male head of yours. But have you once considered what's going on in that nineteen-year-old's head?"
It was coming back to me; why it wasn't wise going tit-for-tat with that wise-acre Deirdre. I shifted the phone to my other ear. "Look, Deirdre, all I have for Coral is respect. And all we do is talk. Now, if two people on this suck planet can't have a simple talk, then what the hell can two people have?"
"Talk? More like sucking her in, tuning her heart strings to play for you and you alone. All so you can step back and laugh when the poor dear finally confesses her love for you. All so you can say, 'But my poor dear, I never saw you as anything more than a mere teenager.' And so you gouge out her heart, gouge out her self confidence, and when you gouge that much out of a mere teenager, you're sure to screw her up for years."
Cry me a creed! Soothsayer I thought I was; I never saw that perspective. Perhaps I should confess to Deirdre the thing Coral had for me was largely a fabrication of my childish imagination. Sure, Coral had shown me every kindness with her frequent smiles and all, but never had I seen love in her eyes.
I turned my back on my eyes.
I turned my back on my eyes.
Then again, in all fairness to myself, Coral could be getting a thing for me. For it was not unusual for this or that girl to get a thing for me. And if Coral was getting a thing for me, then I was, indeed, setting her up for letdown. For the last thing this wise man--at the dawn of his middle age--wanted, was to get involved with a mere nineteen-year-old.
"No, Deirdre, I won't screw Coral up for years. See, she's got a boyfriend, Trent. I might have thought twice about warming up to her likes had she been single. But she has that need met. So it's safe, right?"
"Does Trent know you two are bonding? Or, are you doing it all behind his back?"
"Deirdre, all Coral and I do is talk. Hell, I haven't laid one finger on her. And, no, we're not hiding it from Trent. I don't think he liked us talking at first, but then Coral straightened him out on that, and now he seems somewhat accepting of me."
"Anton Sogn Celadon." Deirdre said it as if it were a complete sentence.
Some time ago, Deirdre had used her skills on the Internet to dig up my middle name. Saying my middle name was mean. Saying my whole name in the tone Deirdre had said it was outright male abuse. No, a guy gets a girl on the phone to get some sex in his ear. Not to get his mother in his ear.
Deirdre needn't have said more.
Deirdre said more. "If you were at all mature, you'd never pass another word with that child. But, because you are a child, you'll continue the abuse, refusing to take responsibility for the damage you're sure to inflict; the emotional scarring that poor dear will surely carry till death parts her out."
Ah, hah; stealing my lines now. Oh, ya, Deirdre, that's way mature.
****
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