You have a stern look.
In all your photos, no teeth bared, a gentle defiance in your straight forward stare.
Our first meeting and everything about you is polished, correct, elegant as you stand ordering tacos from the food truck with me.
Your outer personae is just as you say- tough, yet I see your good graciousness. Generous, polite and seemingly caring as you ask me what I want to eat.
I easily imagine the snarl, the teeth which bare themselves when you do a deal. And when you talk about your Porsche clubs and tango dancing, there is another glance into you feeling special, being a man of class and of the world.
Yet you cheer the underdog on, talking hedge funds and young hedgehogs usurping Wall Street’s gilded, gold cages of over-capitalism.
I watch. I see you slightly showing off, maybe for me, while you chat up a stranger and make a lunch date with him (as I secretly wonder if I’ll have a lunch date with you as well).
And I wonder if you could ever know me- the part that isn’t flashy or luxurious or couldn’t possibly fit in a size two dress. The real me who is soulful, artful, thoughtful and wondrous.
Perhaps you date only high-profile, foreign women, knowing what to expect, what not to hope for, what disappointment is part of that package.
You have stumbled upon me, tripped over this luscious redhead, but can’t see what is here. like a flicker or a flame, it gives you temporary warmth.
I’ve said something clever and you finally smile, sitting across from me. And I no longer see the sharp business dealer, the elegant worldly man.
Your teeth and smile break forth and I see a boy. A boy who at ten traveled to Paris, France with his mother. I imagine her hand holding yours, directing you to the aesthetic Paris beauties, the Louvre, Norte Dame and patisseries. I also see a boy of 14, happy, guileless in pleasing me, in being happy I am sitting across from him.
You say you are hard- maybe you are- the women you have chosen are, which makes me sad for you.
I just see the boy, fresh, open, warm, tender and perhaps loving, and I wonder if you’ve ever been loved as much by another woman besides your mother. I can see straight into the sweet, carmelly, gooey insides of your heart and your real nature.
I want to see the smile again, but this time because you see me. You smile for what is in front of you right now.
Instead we stand in front of a nude drawing in your guest room while you share intimate details of a woman you still hold something for- wishing she could have really given herself to you and you could feel a deep acceptance.
And I have to turn away and know that your heart is untouchable, unavailable and being with that boy, that beautiful boy is not in the cards for me.
Victoria Yeary 