He told me he was 42. I was 37. Of course that was a good fit. We were sitting at a bar after a “Singles Event.” I wore the green jumpsuit I’d made. God, how I loved that suit! It was bright green with buttons up the front and a wide plaid grosgrain ribbon belt that defined my waistline. I had a distinct waistline then.
I liked him; he liked me. He made a date, we went to bed, you know the story. It’s everyone’s story—such a happy time!
We were both divorced; it was all fine. He said, “I have to tell you something. I’m not 42. I’m really 47.”
Did that change anything? Did I fall out of love? Of course I did not. I was just . . . I don’t know. . . disturbed a bit. I thought ridiculous things like, “I’m making love to an old man!” and “Ten years—that’s ten years between us.” That seemed a big gap.
Also, I thought, why would he make up an age? “Why did you lie?”
“It wasn’t a lie!” he laughed. “I just liked you, wanted you to see me as more appropriate. It was just a few years.” He looked perplexed, as though it was I who was guilty.
I laughed, too. I think. Why did it matter? We went on.
He worked for a big company, made more money than I, took me places, paid for everything. It was nice. He was able to help himself, he said, to stuff in the company’s storage room: picture frames, paper, whatever. I wondered.
He did lots of work from home—consulting locally. “I claim I’m making that journey north every day and get travel expenses for those trips!” He laughed. Yes, why not. He built a house in the city and I helped him. It was fun to work together. He put a roof over the easement between his house and the next one. “Isn’t that common property?” I asked. I was so naïve. “Or the city’s?”
“Who’s going to complain?” he said. “I’m going to have a gallery.”
He broke up with me after a few years because he wanted to sleep with others. I realized he had been sleeping at least with one other. Why was I surprised??
He wasn’t 42. He was 47 to begin with.