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The Suitor
He was fluttery, excited about my first visit to his house which had been recently vacated by his ex-wife. A late-night date after my long workday at the deli where he had invited me to a home-cooked supper which he had carefully prepared, a shrimp salad with sourdough garlic bread. I felt flattered by his excessive attention; I was charmed by his beguiling ways. I came to realize the effect it had on me, a newly discovered power I had over another person that he could make such a fuss over me. It made me feel inflated but also responsible for being careful about abusing his emotions. Was this a new sensitivity for me? Was the Zelda personality within me, which ran rampantly, naively leaving bruises on people while I continued my exploration of being a newly liberated divorced woman, still in control? I had watched other middle-aged women come into their power, mowing people down like reckless tractors on a rampage. After my first impression of lavish attention, looking around the house, I smelled a combination of odors: unfresh shrimp, a rug and stuffed furniture covered with long dog hairs from his Irish Setter, cigarette butts which filled the ashtray, and incense burning. The shaggy, overgrown houseplants obliterated the beachfront view of Puget Sound. I felt a combination of disgust and curiosity about this middle-aged man who was working so diligently at impressing me, telling me he would provide me with a soft pillow and toothbrush if I would stay the night, filling his emptiness and loneliness with my warm body. A temptation to assuage my own longing for intimacy. He was weaving me into his fantasy, creating the part he wanted me to play in his life by describing out loud what he saw in me. I listened in wonder and thought, “Do I want to play this role?” I thanked him and allowed him to walk me to my car, and I drove across the bridge to my empty apartment, where the real me was welcome.
Patricia Crow
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