‘So how about getting the lady a lovely new dress?’
I would have sprung off my feet at those words.
And normally say something like ‘Fantastic! Let’s go, get it! What are we waiting for?’
But I had to show that I have my own reservations. Particularly with new comers into my life.
So I remember smiling and saying something like, ‘Mmmm…no. I already have so many’
And then his face evolved an impish smile, ‘A girl can never have so-many dresses, I had heard!’
We laughed that away.
I don’t know what for was he so exceptionally amicable to me. He could have simply treated me like a far off relative, here to see his city. He could have put me up at some hotel, called me home for an occasional dinner, and get done with it. But he would rather see me in a room in his house.
Men at an age like his are conventionally supposed to part from youngsters for their highly screwed up generation Y antics. But he would rather spend his time trying to know what exactly was happening within me.
Was all this because he had been alone all his long life? Or was it because he was an artist?
We were having lunch at one of his favorite restaurants. It’s a mildly sunny afternoon. He eats a little and talks a lot.
Does he at all push his glasses up his nose and behave like that I-am-a-friend-of-your-dad and all? No, he so completely stands apart from that category.
We converse like two age-less people. He is pretty deep as a person. When I am not attentive, I get lost in the contours of his face. His eyes sparkle when he speaks, and he folds his hands on the table when he talks to me.
Is this that young girl fantasizing should I say a ‘middle-aged’ man syndrome? Probably no.
He is just another object of observation. And it is now that I can see beyond his wrinkles…