I’m Too Old For You

How do I love thee?
Let me count the years.

You aren’t Circe, whose bright hair swarmed about her face like a halo. She was improbable, fiery, the first to tell me I was wrong and the last to be right. She was everything I wasn’t… Well, that I wasn’t YET. Her passion, forgiveness, strength, cruelty…. She was her father’s daughter and I learned much from it, as I ever should.
As I left, her hair was grey and swarmed about her face like a halo, like a cloud, like a memory. And she became a memory.
She was my first.

You, glorious you, are not Jullia. She was a small little thing, thin as the grapes she languished over, so passionate she could create poetry on her lips but not within a bottle, and not on paper to prove any of it. I was drunk when I met her and drunker still the longer we existed together, the taste of vinegar strong in my mouth as I struggled to understand what made HER so wonderful but why nothing was able to express it. Some people are kept airtight in the world, capable of such glories that are inexpressible at the time. Well, as was Jullia. I spent years at her bedside, pining for her to be the great poet, the great creator, the vintner, the wondrous maker she had within her, and it never bore fruit. She slept, old and barren and wrinkled for keeping the beauty within her to herself.

So it goes.

You are not Lucia, whose smile shone across a room. I was unprepared, and yet caught in her trap as well. She was a hostess incarnate, any conversation was better for her being in it and the peaks of her hat could not hold her brilliance, she often cast it away in order to talk further by the evening’s end. She was born in a wrong time, for intelligence was prized far less in women than having the right hair and spangled clothing. She had so much, she did, and I gave as much as I could to her, but if only she could have lasted as I did, so deeply did I love, so deeply did I feel her yearnings. Nowadays Lucia could be the Prime Minister. But as it was, she was an old woman in a curtained bed.

I pray for you, Lucia, as you thought prayer meant something.

You are not Francis, who haunted me. Behind every corner, hidden away from every affair, there he was. Delicate as a painter’s stroke, his feathery touches awoke something in me that I hadn’t known at all. Francis, oh Francis, your lust for life was quelled only in drink, in spreading yourself thin as you could while others looked on in glee. You were ever so slight, a wisp of beauty like a feather in our hand, but more like a snowflake as you melted at anyone’s touch. I stood by your bedside, whether you had been in it or not. I saw you flit out of view and into the bedclothes of others. I worried not. Francis, dear Francis, you were not but a dandelion to be plucked and puffed out to its eventual places.
I left before you were truly grey, and I think you noticed not. I cared ever more than you did, my dear Francis, for you never cared a writ for yourself.

But you, magnetic you, are not Claudine.
I’ve never known so many eyes to rush to a person.
I was one of the many, but somehow the last to keep in focus. I cannot say much of myself, only that Claudine found me different and unique. Yet I only lived in her shadow, which stretched like a cigarillo, long and thin and careful. She was ever a mystery, my Claudine. In years I knew her and lived alongside, she would disappear and return. I cannot say otherwise, I did the same. I would be gone, searching for facts and intelligence that paid for the dry Bordeaux and the sweet Champagne. When alas we met, like light and shadow we entwined, all work gone from ourselves, all pretense of loyalty hidden at the foot of a bed lined with silk sheets.
I believe she left me, that one. We spent much time, more than I could account, but her raven hair was still unmarred by grey as she waved a last goodbye on the deck of a ship.
It was a permanent goodbye, I saw it in the wave and how the bedroom felt bare, lacking all of her small fancies.
But it was the last goodbye as the ship sank nearly three hours out of port. I never saw her again, and whether engineered by her hand or otherwise, the end was quite final.

Behold, the true history, for you are not Lily.
Spry and clever, deft and gymnastic, her anxious ways gave light into my life as she traveled from meal to meal amidst carnival colors. She belonged to a circus, made her living as that of rubber. She stretched and pulled herself into such shapes it would be thought impossible, and nightly she was at my side, crooning old songs from thousands of years back that none know but her kind, and I cannot recall to this day. Bright and wide-eyed, she loved a challenge and her joints doubled or tripled themselves as she became whatever was necessary. With me, she was whole, and real, and treated me as a treasured pet. She was always greater, Lily, in mind and body of every way, but in spirit I was older and I knew when it was time for me to leave.
Gustave the Strongman could not be waylaid any longer. Lily and Gustave was destiny, if one tinged with a salt-and-pepper moustache on the latter’s part.
I left with a kiss, to travel beyond. Lily left to be her show-self, every day and night, no longer having a respite with someone who was beyond such a border of showmanship.

I miss her.
More than the others, quite plainly.

You, with your wry grin, are not Clara, for nobody could be Clara but herself.
I’ve searched so many years and rarely found another that was anything like what Clara could be, and indeed still is.
Whatever she had was natural. Whatever her whim or desire was ultimately the next month’s fancy, she was almost a fortune teller of style and chic. Yet she was no more than a sweet little secretary, a wonderful being with a warm countenance and only hoped for a healthy home to decorate. Even she did not know what she was, while never a contestant for the front page of Vogue, she was a trend-setter in a way I considered impossible. The subtlest of changes would suit her, the discarded styles of fashion would flatter her such that it would grace the pages of magazines not long afterward. She was a canvas for beauty, everything looked wonderful with her, including me. I’d rarely been so desired as when I was at her side, this shy, loving soul who felt so freely and dressed as she wanted, and the industry fought to catch up.
Because a housewife could make something look that good.
I had lunch with her not two weeks ago, Clara is still making everything she does a trend. She could have been anything, but she only chose to be a mother. Our children are well, she is well, and our family Sunday dinners are moments I will cherish forever, a true contentment of an ever-independent family, and a mai-tai with an umbrella in my hand.

Now, don’t look so sad, my dearest. I said that my history was a lengthy one, but I hope it has shown that I have more than a discerning eye.
You are none of these people, no matter how stretched the history may become, you are special, unique, yourself. I’ve had lifetimes to contemplate, and I may have many lifetimes yet, but here you are.
Radiant. Coy. Playful as a cat and strong as a lioness, I knew the moment I met you that I would want to call you mine. I’ve so rarely felt equalled, but you had me to my knees in a swift moment.

What sets you apart?
Your determination.
You are a meteor plummeting towards your target, you are a universe shifting its course, you know exactly what you want and have never stopped calculating the ways to get it. You are not a person but a movement. And your legions follow with you.
Now who am I to say that I could be at your side?
I say nothing of the sort, only that you have already chosen me. Lucky, I am, and equally dedicated.
Your story can last as long as you want it to, for there is a time when I may not be enough. But know that I will use all that I can, all in my power to see you through to the awards ceremonies, to the sky-high offices, to the grey hair that awaits you when you achieve all that you want. To be involved with your timeline…. is my privilege.
You would enjoy meeting Clara, if you had a lunch to spare sometime. Next week, perhaps?
My dear, my darling, my lioness.
I shall pick out a ring as ruby-red as your heart, and watch it beat to the pattern of your influence. The world is yours, and yet, it can be… ours.
I am forever and humbly your partner.
Forever being something none else can promise as strongly as I.
Tomorrow we shall reign together, again.
For now, rest your eyes and dream of long strides across a wide world.
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This story was inspired by The Twilight Zone episode ‘Long Live Walter Jameson.’ If you liked this, please share and make things and take a look at my Patreon page and support more writing!