The butterflies flutter again
My friends and I are almost all singles. Over the years we have become tougher than we ever wanted to be. Out of the question men do not stand a chance with us, we are doing too well without them. Parts of our femininity are finally put away, for example, the desire for attachment and protection, but also our own tenderness.
Instead of moaning about it, we share our worries and books, helping each other out professionally and privately. Many of us wear faded T-shirts with holes in our bed while the frilly nightgown has been tasting only cupped air for years. We barely look at our own breasts, but before we go out, we make ourselves as beautiful as never before. For self-confidence, we say. And now that: I visit with friends a panel discussion. Just before beginning, I balance my coffee cup outside to smoke. I press my bag and jacket to myself, when I hear a man shout: "That's great, that you get coffee here!" One hand reaches for my cup, I look up and look into the most beautiful eyes of the world. I think I stuttered that there was no sugar in the coffee. I think he answered, he does not care.
I do not know what to say and just talk stupid stuff.
We just stood for a moment, this tall, handsome man and me. It was enough to grasp that I knew him for a hundred years, that he had depth, was warm-hearted, funny, self-confident and strong. At the same time he was completely alien to me. Then one suddenly no longer knows which tone to strike, and only talks stupid things. He said he had to go in, unfortunately, just shouting to me that he would like nothing more than to share the cigarette with me, then he disappeared into the hall. When I followed a little later, he sat as moderator in the middle of the podium. A thousand eyes rest on presenters, and everyone else has more to do with it than me. I really could not join him and record the conversation that I thought would be the only one between us. With some effort I withdrew from his attraction and chatted with my friends.
However, every second I knew where he was walking and standing, he registered his tummy, his thinning hair and how he spoke elegant statements to a journalist. I also saw his tired moments. Before he left, he came to me and said goodbye, cordially and with routine courtesy. I wished him a nice day in the same tone. I could as well have kissed him. Then he was gone.
I'm not sorry to meet him for a second.
Only once did I speak of the encounter, on the way back with the friends. I learned from them that he has been married for decades. "Alright," I said with a smile. "I do not think about it anymore, I'm just a little bit happy." I was pleased with my absurd assurance that I had married this man on the spot. I admit that for two more days wistful feelings staggered through my heart. But I am old enough to have no more, which does not happen by itself. From experience I know that a feeling that you do not feed, evaporates faster. So I did not search for photos of him on the internet, did not dig deeper into my heart. Just do not stir, my worn-out single-shoes fit so wonderful. Soon I was the old man again, with the tried and tested breakfast rituals, friends and everyday problems, and when I went to bed, no man was missing beside me. I would not have preferred to go with them when my friends invited me to an exhibition opening soon afterwards. But when I learned that this man would moderate her, a 15-year-old took over the direction in my place and said joyfully in my place. She wanted to see her new crush again.
He entered the gallery in the evening, saw me among the guests and headed straight for me. How it could happen that I kissed him on the neck and he held my hand, I do not know. For me it was the natural way to greet a person who is very close to you. In stage volume, as if he were talking to everyone, he reminded us of our nice encounter the other day. The further communication that made the thing so blatantly serious ran off on other levels, wordless. He did not release my hand until a lady came to us. The rest of the evening he had to work, and after the drink I saw him disappear. This time I was sure we would never meet again. "I'm not sad at all," I said briskly to my friends in the car. "I'm not sorry to have met him for a second, and he can not leave his wife for three seconds of small talk."
I thought, in love with old age is no longer possible
Only very rarely do I imagine how different my life could be with a man. Envy for couples does not help. A handful I know, who found themselves late and have the maturity to put their love above every little nickeliness. I do not even know if I have this maturity. All I know is that I have the best intentions. But because that alone does not help, I do not concern myself with that. The fact that this man wrote me a mail a week later and sent a funny photo, I had not expected. I could not stop smiling all day and not the next. I want to be with him, I thought, right away.
Of course, I wrote him back, very cheeky, but without revealing a flank. I thanked for the greeting, greeted back and wished all the best. His reply the following evening was short and very nice and could have been conclusive, one last wink, before our lives split up again. But he asked me a trivial question. He needed to know what signal he was using, because every question would have an answer.
My sexual nature returns with power.
Who would have thought that a serene middle-aged woman could turn from one moment to the other into a nervous, stupid, in love bundle in the face of a banal question? With desire a desire breaks its way, which I had thought dead in me. It robs me of the breath and makes me suffocate happy. For quite a while I have not heard stupid grinning music, but now I can not concentrate on anything else. Have not I always known that my life story is crowned by a great love? I keep seeing his beautiful eyes above me. I have no influence on the fireworks inside me. My hands want to caress his body, I want to make absurd jokes with him. Only the fact that it's the middle of the night keeps me from storming his office. How can I get this madness fenced again?
Where were the feelings all the time?
In my reply mail - we are still with you - I tried to make him feel who I am. No toy, no wife for an affair, no potential lover. I did not write anything about my yearning. I have no idea if he will ever contact me again. He is a smart man and it is serious. He would have to make a mad decision. My last bit of reason tells me he will not do that.
And yet I call my e-mails every hour. Inside, a ringing slot machine is spinning. My sexual nature returns with a vengeance. Does he think of me? How about looking him in the eye without anyone being around? An ocean of heat spills over all my tendons and bones. I can not explain where in the world I had hidden those shattering, happy, buttery feelings for so long. I'll have to push her back. But I'm not sorry, do not even hurt. I assure my girlfriends that in a few days I will definitely be the same again.
