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<br><br> I'm doing what every middle aged man knows not to do—I'm putting myself out there—gambling on beating the odds with a younger woman.

Of course, I'm bound to fail, but I miss the thrill, and frankly, what the hell...at least that's what I'm telling my wise self, while my foolish heart is siding with the girl.

Exceptions happen to every rule. In deference to the third law of thermodynamics, sometimes rust just stops.

*But is it possible time backs up*? These kinds of questions gave Einstein heartburn. As for me,  they fan my foolish dreams and breathe on the embers of burnt-out desire.



<br><br> We ride the elevator to the 18th floor of the Park Hotel and get a table with a view overlooking Yorkville and the University grounds.

It’s past six, and the sky is filled with towering cumulus clouds that promise a beautiful sunset.

“Nice ambiance,” she says contentedly, scanning the candle lit tables and the view. “Good job, Lev.”

<br><br> She pronounces my name with a short ‘e’, making it sound like sped or dead.

“By the way,” I inform her, “my name is pronounced like ‘Leev’—short for Levi.”

“Oh, really—you Jewish?”

“Not exactly—I’m an ex-priest actually.”

<br><br> She looks at me critically. “I’d never have figured you for that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re kinda hot—I don’t imagine that would go over well in that line of work.”

“You think?” I laugh. I’m grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah, I think that’s why you had to Leeeev.” She stretches out the ‘e’ and smirks. Her eyes are dancing.

<br><br> I take a sip of my scotch and sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I grin wistfully, while scenes of my past flash before me.

“Don’t worry, Lev, your secret’s safe with me—unless, you piss me off. Then, it’ll be all over the six o’clock news.”

“What—no pins stuck in my effigy?”

“No,” she whispers, “ I could hate you but I could never hurt you.”

<br><br> She stares at me with those golden eyes and my stomach flips and my mouth goes dry.

An hour later we’re sitting in Hemingway’s enjoying a strip loin sirloin and drinking wine.

I don’t make it home for eight that night. By the time I roll in just after twelve, Samantha, my longhair calico is pouting, perched on the sofa back, staring at the city lights milky in the curtains.

<br><br> “Sorry, Sam—was out with a friend. I’ll open a fresh can of tuna.”

She’s having none of it. Females don’t like to share their men.

And as soon as I think it, I’m back in Clare’s apartment again—her eyes flashing, the angry questions—the helpless feeling of life slipping from me once more.

<br><br> It’s easier to bury yourself in the bottomless amber of rye than to think on things that make you hurt—and don’t make it better afterwards.

I open my laptop and a memo pops up. I realize it’s an anniversary of sorts—one year to the day since Clare and I parted.

I pour two fingers of Canadian Club and toast her silver-framed portrait on the curio shelf. Each weekend I mean to take it down, but end up dusting it and putting it back with the rest of my past.

It may be time to move on. And maybe I already have.



<br><br><center>© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

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