Blaming Gravity

He sat back comfortably in her chair. She sat forward on her own sofa nervously straightening the material on her skirt.
    "I'm forty, you know," she said.
    "I know," he said.
    "...and you're not."
    "Ya, I know that too."
    "So why are you here?" she asked.
    He nodded and smiled. "There are two kinds of forty," he said. "There is one forty that a woman waits for. In fact, she begins preparing herself to be forty when she's thirty-three. Then, when she hits four-O, she already comfortably old. Then there's the other forty when that age just sneaks up and she is not ready to be old yet. Which forty do you think you are?"
    "Last month I would have said the first one. But it's amazing what the attention of a twenty something boy does to a forty-year-old woman. So let me ask you another question, why are you here?"
    "Are you looking for a specific answer, or would any answer suffice?"
    "How about the truth?"
    "What if I told you there was no truth...only gravity?"
    "Don't confuse the old lady."
    "I have reasons for being here," he said, "but anything I say will only sound suspect, and one day, it may sound like lies."
    She plopped back on her sofa. "I surrender," she said.
    "That was the plan."
    He smiled at her. She just stared back. When he stood, not quickly, but in one motion, she gasped. He stepped toward her and then walked to the opened window.
    "Tell me a story," he said.
    "A story?"
    "Tell me about you when you were a girl. What were you like? What did you like? Who did you like?"
    "I don't know."
    "Tell me about your first slow dance."
    "My first slow dance? I can't remember..."
    "Have you ever had a slow dance?" he asked.
    "Of course..."
    "Then you must have had a first one." He walked toward the sofa. He was gentle as he pushed her shoulder. The contact shook her. "I don't think anyone can ever forget their first slow dance."
    "I have."
    He sat on the sofa, just barely out of touch. He reached out and moved her hair behind her ear. He felt her shiver.
    "Lance Bracken," she said.
    "...excuse me."
    "My first slow dance...it was Lance Bracken. He was a cowboy. I was a skinny fourteen year old."
    "Was it a school dance?"
    "I think so."
    "Was he your boyfriend?"
    "I wanted him to be. Maybe he was. Anyway, I'm not sure he was my boyfriend, but I was his girlfriend. He told me he loved me...as much as fourteen year old cowboy can love." She leaned back on the sofa. She grew comfortable enough to not notice his hand straightening the material on her skirt.
    "Do you remember the song?" he asked.
    "No...no...," she looked up and searched her memory, "No, don't remember. I was wearing a blue dress; that I remember. The lunchroom was decorated red and white. It must have been Valentine's Day. Lance was wearing tight-checkered jeans. Now that I remember! He smelled like burning wood. And I mean in a good way. I was taller than him. Not much, but enough that I remember slouching..." She smiled as she stared at the ceiling, her neck resting on the back of the sofa. "True Love Ways," she said.
    "True Love Ways?" he asked.
    "Peter and Gordon. That was the first song. True Love Ways. He was so strong. I don't remember feeling weak, I just remember him feeling so strong. I guess that's what a girl is supposed to do. He wasn't a great dancer...but it was a great dance." A tear formed in her eye. "Look what you did," she said, "...make me nostalgic. Happy?"
    "Are you?"
    "Did I ever ask why are you here?"
    "You interest me."
    "Like a comic book?"
    "I told you the words wouldn't sound right."
    "Oh, they sound right, they just make me feel like a curiosity."
    "Would you believe me if I told you that I found you exciting?"
    "No."
    "How about beautiful?"
    "Please!"
    "I find you fresh," he said and moved closer.
    She shook her head.
    "All those are true. But how do I make you believe it?"
    "You can't."
    "I know. That's why I want us to blame physics."
    "Physics?"
    "You know, gravity."
    "How old is your mother?" she asked.
    He stroked her hair. "Oh," he said, "I don't know, forty-five, I think."
    "And it doesn't bother you that I'm forty?"
    "If you were my mother, your age would be the last thing that would bother me."
    "Do you make a habit of seducing older women?"
    "If by seducing, you mean gravitate to, then maybe yes. But if you think I am only attracted to forty-year-old women, then no. I'm attracted to you. You! You could have been twenty, or sixty, or fourteen in a blue dress. I like looking at you, I like listening to you, I like touching you. We could spend all night trying to figure out the dynamics of gravity or how old you were when I stopped wearing diapers or why I see pretty and you see old...but what does that get us? Wouldn't you rather taste tonight on your tongue and inhale me deep in your lungs or gauge how strong I am by how tight I hold you in a new slow dance? I'm here right now. I'll let you decide what happens next."
    She could feel him stroking her hair. She wondered if he could sense her fear. Fear of disappointing someone, fear of appearing foolish, fear of her own inadequacies, she was constantly assassinating her own self-esteem.
    She was a mess. She turned to look at him.
    "Do you remember Peter and Gordon?" she asked.
    "Sure," he said, "Peter Asher and Gordon...somebody? Yes, I remember."
    "Then what's your favorite song by them?"
    "uhhh....True Love Ways?"
    "Mine too," she said and relaxed.
    "Do you remember A Summer Place?" he asked.
    "The movie?"
    "Ya, Troy Donohue, Sandra Dee?"
    "I remember."
    "Do you remember that the movie really wasn't about the two kids, it was the story of the innkeeper's wife...Dorothy McGuire and Richard Egan?"
    "OK."
    "It was the story of love found, love lost, love recalled, and love regained."
    "I remember."
    "Tell me, what was the difference between the passion that the sixteen year olds felt and the passion shared by the forty year olds?"
    "I'm not sure what you mean."
    "Who do you think felt more passion, the kids, who were just finding love, or their parents, who already knew what love was. What's more comfortable, a new house with new corners or an old home where you know all the places where the floor creaks?"
    "I'm an old house?" she asked.
    "No, but I could be a corner you just found."
    "Do you find me attractive?"
    "Yes."
    "You find me sexy?"
    "Is that so hard to believe?"
    "Yes," she said. "It's been eight years for me," she admitted.
    "That's doesn't matter."
    "My ex-husband didn't treat me very well."
    "You've told me that. I'm sorry."
    "He wasn't very romantic."
    "Fool."
    "I don't think I pleased him."
    "Did he please you?"
    "I don't think I was...I don't think I'm very good."
    He moved toward her. She began breathing in quick, little gasps. He moved slowly. She stared and gasped. When he kissed her, she signed. She surrendered.
    He led her to her bedroom. He undressed her in the dark. He took his time. When she tried to speak, he would cover her mouth with his. Naked, they moved around the bed in large choreographed circles. What began as low guttural groans soon became breathy bellows. He prompted her. She was like a river being held back by straw. When he finally broke through, the liquid was a torrent.
    The morning brought light. She awoke slowly. She was naked above the twisted bed sheets. He was sitting up watching her. When she noticed, she reached for the covers. He easily wrestled them away from her. He used just enough strength to win and she used just enough resistance to appear to fight. This time they rushed to each.
    Later that day, she came to his desk. She stepped light. She leaned in the door. He turned his chair toward her and smiled.
    "I hope you're happy," she said.
    He nodded.
    "I feel good," she said. "God, that sounds really stupid,"
    "Well...good is the best way to feel," he said.
    "...stupid again," she said as she turned to leave. "Do you want to hear the stupidest thing I could say right now?"
    "Sure."
    "Thank you," she said.
    "Thank you back."
    "...one more thing," she said, "right now, I think I feel like I'm in a summer place and I'm both Sandra Dee and Dorothy McGuire."
    She turned and walked away with a half-hop-half skip apparently unaffected by the gravity.