band I liked better, I can’t remember, but she told me that the album
Nevermind
was her favorite all-time record when she was in grade seven. I quickly did some silent math in my head. How could the sexiest, smartest, silver-hairedest woman I had ever met be too young for me to go out with?
“Grade seven?” I blurted out. “How can you be twenty-three? How did I get to be … if I had met you in 1991 when
Nevermind
first came out, you would have been …” I shuddered.
“Twelve years old.” She laughed again. Like this didn’t matter at all. “It’s the grey hair, right? That fooled you? I started going grey when I was sixteen. Runs in the family.”
My shoulders seemed too heavy to hold up all of a sudden. I told her I was too old for her. She told me that age doesn’t matter. I told her the only people who think there is no such thing as too old for you are usually too young to know any better. She told me that she had just come out of the closet, that she wanted an older lover. She told me I was being ageist. I told her I used to think people were just being ageist too, when I was her age. She told me I was being ageist. I told her I know. Then I let out a long sigh. Did what I had to do. Told her that I was a dirty rotten rotter, that I had been around the block a million times, that I had slept with more women than … that I had slept with a fair number of women in my long and lucky life of loving, and that she should pick someone special, that this was her second chance at having a first time, and most people never get a second first-time chance at anything, that she was lucky, and not to waste that chance on a pussy crook like me. Go, I told her, and fall in love with a nice woman. Fall in crazy stupid dumb-struck love and move in together and figure yourself out, don’t get a cat, though, and then fall out of love, suffer through a hopefully short but nevertheless nether-region-numbing bout of lesbian bed death, and break up. Lather, rinse, and repeat. I told her that if she still wanted me five years from now, to come and find me. I told her that if she still wanted me then, that I would be honoured. Told her I had to go, before I changed my mind.
I would see her around from time to time. Usually at poetry readings. Started going to a lot of poetry readings. Started dressing up to go to poetry readings. Started ironing my shirts to go to poetry readings.
Five years later I am in my car, waiting to turn left off of Commercial Drive onto First Avenue, on my way to the Home Depot. My girlfriend and I have recently broken up. We still live together, which could have been awkward, but luckily she was often in Portland with her new lover, who made more money than me, had a really hot truck, and a brand new Harley. So of course I was doing what any self-respecting butch does in this kind of situation: I was throwing myself heart-first into a complicated home improvement endeavour.
This next part seems like magic, but it is true. Some would say this is evidence that magic is for real. I was listening to classic rock and Fleetwood Mac was singing about don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, and so I was thinking about tomorrow, about how maybe this breakup was for the best anyway, right, because look, I was finally going to get the new floor down in my office, and wasn’t I now free to do what I wanted with whomever I wanted, plus, hadn’t it been five years now, so couldn’t I take that silver fox out on a date now? Thirty-eight and twenty-eight wasn’t so bad, right?
And that’s when I saw her. Standing on the corner with a coffee in her hand. Her hair now more silver than black, somehow even more beautiful. She waved when she saw me. I unlocked the passenger side door and she jumped in.
“Where you going?” she smiled, showing her one crooked tooth.
“Home Depot,” I told her.
“I love Home Depot,” she said, and winked.
We didn’t get out of bed for three days. She did a lot of yoga, it
Nevermind
was her favorite all-time record when she was in grade seven. I quickly did some silent math in my head. How could the sexiest, smartest, silver-hairedest woman I had ever met be too young for me to go out with?
“Grade seven?” I blurted out. “How can you be twenty-three? How did I get to be … if I had met you in 1991 when
Nevermind
first came out, you would have been …” I shuddered.
“Twelve years old.” She laughed again. Like this didn’t matter at all. “It’s the grey hair, right? That fooled you? I started going grey when I was sixteen. Runs in the family.”
My shoulders seemed too heavy to hold up all of a sudden. I told her I was too old for her. She told me that age doesn’t matter. I told her the only people who think there is no such thing as too old for you are usually too young to know any better. She told me that she had just come out of the closet, that she wanted an older lover. She told me I was being ageist. I told her I used to think people were just being ageist too, when I was her age. She told me I was being ageist. I told her I know. Then I let out a long sigh. Did what I had to do. Told her that I was a dirty rotten rotter, that I had been around the block a million times, that I had slept with more women than … that I had slept with a fair number of women in my long and lucky life of loving, and that she should pick someone special, that this was her second chance at having a first time, and most people never get a second first-time chance at anything, that she was lucky, and not to waste that chance on a pussy crook like me. Go, I told her, and fall in love with a nice woman. Fall in crazy stupid dumb-struck love and move in together and figure yourself out, don’t get a cat, though, and then fall out of love, suffer through a hopefully short but nevertheless nether-region-numbing bout of lesbian bed death, and break up. Lather, rinse, and repeat. I told her that if she still wanted me five years from now, to come and find me. I told her that if she still wanted me then, that I would be honoured. Told her I had to go, before I changed my mind.
I would see her around from time to time. Usually at poetry readings. Started going to a lot of poetry readings. Started dressing up to go to poetry readings. Started ironing my shirts to go to poetry readings.
Five years later I am in my car, waiting to turn left off of Commercial Drive onto First Avenue, on my way to the Home Depot. My girlfriend and I have recently broken up. We still live together, which could have been awkward, but luckily she was often in Portland with her new lover, who made more money than me, had a really hot truck, and a brand new Harley. So of course I was doing what any self-respecting butch does in this kind of situation: I was throwing myself heart-first into a complicated home improvement endeavour.
This next part seems like magic, but it is true. Some would say this is evidence that magic is for real. I was listening to classic rock and Fleetwood Mac was singing about don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, and so I was thinking about tomorrow, about how maybe this breakup was for the best anyway, right, because look, I was finally going to get the new floor down in my office, and wasn’t I now free to do what I wanted with whomever I wanted, plus, hadn’t it been five years now, so couldn’t I take that silver fox out on a date now? Thirty-eight and twenty-eight wasn’t so bad, right?
And that’s when I saw her. Standing on the corner with a coffee in her hand. Her hair now more silver than black, somehow even more beautiful. She waved when she saw me. I unlocked the passenger side door and she jumped in.
“Where you going?” she smiled, showing her one crooked tooth.
“Home Depot,” I told her.
“I love Home Depot,” she said, and winked.
We didn’t get out of bed for three days. She did a lot of yoga, it
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