The Shoe Won't Fit

 "You have pretty feet!" He exclaimed, catching sight of my toes peeping out of the open-front sandals I had on. "Ahhh," he sighed, "You don't know how happy that makes me." And he looked at my hands and said, "And hands! You have pretty feet and hands. I love your nose, and your mouth, and your hair...." and as he enumerated my apparently several physical attributes, I tuned out. I tuned back in as he said, "I'm not in lust with you, you know." I smiled wryly to myself. Really? That must be why you heard not one word of that funny story I told you about street food in London.

And then I looked at him. Was I expected to return the compliments? I looked at his feet. Yeah, they were very pretty for a man's feet. "You have rather nice feet yourself," I ventured, "and hands." I couldn't bring myself to say more. It seemed like some exercise in school where we told each other compliments in order to boost each other's insecure teenage morales. But he didn't really notice my pause. He carried on.

"We make a really good looking couple, you know? Imagine us walking into a room," he boomed in his loud American drawl. "Gosh! I would be so proud to walk into a room with you on my arm. Wouldn't you?" This seemed to be important to him, so I nodded and mumbled a faint Mm-hmm. "Let's take a selfie!" and he whipped out his 1+6 or whatever fancy-assed latest android phone it was, and grabbed me to him. I tried to smile, feeling idiotic. Next thing I knew he'd whatsapped the photo across time and space to his 17 year-old daughter who was on another continent. I gasped inwardly. I asked to look at the picture: I looked a little drunk like I probably was, what with half a bottle of wine swilling around my innards. But there was no mistaking the reluctant smile that did not match his brilliant flash of white teeth. Anyone who knew me well would see the discomfort. But clearly he did not. More wine, and I eased myself into just going with the moment. I really did not want to think about anything too much right then.

"Hey, did you notice my eyelashes?" he turned towards me and blinked his eyes rapidly, looking a little like a teenage girl trying mascara for the first time. (Although teenage and his bald head didn't really go toegther.) 

                                  

"What about your eyelashes?" I asked. His beady eyes were small, and bright and I could barely see any lashes.

He gasped, faking shock (like said teen girl), and flutters them again this time closer to my face, "They're so long! My daughters always say how they wish they had them!"

I thought he was being facetious, so I laughed. And when he didn't laugh I realised he was being serious about his eyelashes and I swallowed my mirth. I think, my lashes are far longer and thicker. What's he saying!? So, I said, "Mine are longer," in a playful attempt, testing his self awareness. He waved my claim away, and fluttered his lashes at me again. Now, I felt vaguely repulsed by this rather unwarranted obsession with his lashes. "Is there more wine?" I asked, looking at my glass to hide the disdain that was probably writ large across my face, and got up to look for some.

As the evening wore on, I became conscious of a brittle feeling growing inside me. I encouraged him to take a call from his daughter while I strolled around the little garden. A lone firefly strayed close to me and let me pick it up in the palm of my hand. Instantly soothed by this little sign from up above that I was going to be OK, I instinctively turned and showed it to him. He made me show it to his daughter who was on video-chat with him. She said something to him about how fireflies appear where there is love! Immediately I wished I hadn't found the little critter. I set it down and moved away.

The rest of the time that followed was filled with overt admiration of my looks, my voice, and my love of the Gita. Although I sat alone, I was frequently pulled into an embrace. I shrank into my emotional cocoon, numbed by this endless praise and neediness. 

When it was finally time to go home, I could not wait to leave. I finished my food quickly and gathered my belongings trying not to show my eagerness. The place was beautiful and I wished I could have felt it more without being told how much I love nature. Or that Krishna loves me. I clenched my teeth in a valiant attempt to not say anything. I spent the rest of the time, making small talk, listening to his loud droning, and mumbling mm-hmm and smiling my oh-so-stunning smile. All I could think about was getting home and shutting the damn door. 

He did not once notice the tiredness in my face, my eyes or stance. He probably took my silence for some deep, tacit acquiescence. He then took more selfies in which my smile was a grimace. Yet he saw only his happy smile and not my very evident angst.

I cannot abide this anymore, my inner voice said. But maybe you're being hasty, my ego told me. Hmmm. Heart and head as usual pulling in opposite directions. I decided to give both a chance to tell me more. Let's give it a little time? I told them. One rolled her eyes at me, and the other patted me on the back.

The next day I waited for him at a coffee shop. He was late. I ordered his coffee as well as mine and found a table. I saw him as soon as he approached the door. His slightly awkward gait, his heavy paunch disguised in an expensive cotton shirt. He smiled brightly at me as he whisked something out from behind his back and handed it to me. As usual, one long stalk with about four lily buds. This time the romantic gesture was lost on me. Heart: I hate the plastic that is used up for one stalk. And it grated on my nerves that he thought this gesture must be repeated every time we met. I smiled tightly. I was tired already. Head was quiet.

The coffees arrived and I offered him a cinnamon roll. "Will you feed me?" he asked, eyes like a small child's. Once again, the rush of irritation flooded through me. Idiot! I wanted to scream, Feed yourself! What are your hands for? But instead, I sweetly cut the roll and fed him a piece, cringing inwardly. When he tried to feed me, it was just too much, and I had to fight to control my reactions. Head: OK, heart, you win. I don't think I can handle this either!

Eventually we rose to leave. He did not offer to pay for his coffee at all. Just went ahead and ordered some stuff to take home. It didn't really matter to me, but at least to offer would be nice. And it reminded me of when I was invited to his home for lunch...

I had arrived at about 12:45 pm, well in time for a lunch I thought. I made small talk with his old mother who could barely talk because of her Parkinson's. They sat me down and showed me album after album of him growing up and various family pictures. All the while I was thinking, and when is lunch? After a couple of hours of waiting around, playing with the dogs, making small talk and feeling rather out of place, I finally asked, "What about lunch?" And his expression was blank like "Well, what about it?" So, I assumed (rightly) there was no lunch and suggested we go to a nearby restaurant and eat there, which is what we did at 3 pm in the afternoon, my stomach grumbling loudly and my annoyance levels soaring. But I sweetly - as usual - put it down to perhaps his bachelor ways, and let it go. Hellooo, red flag alert, non?

There were many such red flags, some that I acknowledged and others that I ignored. But I think the final one was when we had made plans to meet friends for dinner and he delayed us getting there. I had organised for an erstwhile friend of his to be there with his wife who happened to be an old friend of mine. I had already apprised him of how she liked early evenings and that she had an early morning and wanted to keep the evening short. And yet, he wanted to finish his bottle of wine before we went, and smoke a leisurely cigarette. Maybe I could have let it go if he had been a little apologetic about it. But he hadn't. Instead he said, "Who cares!?" Clearly he didn't realise - or care - that I did. Very much, thank you. And that was that for me.

"Fuck off!" I told him once, when he patronisingly called me a "good girl". He had turned around and told me, "Don't ever say that again. There are enough potty mouths in this world!" And not an hour later he was cursing loudly at some guy who cut him off at a signal, "Bloody, fucking arsehole!!" Eye Roll anyone?

You can draw your own conclusions from this short summary of the things that passed between the he and the me. To me, he was insensitive (to my feelings, interests, and needs). His only interest was in the possession of the entity (me). He wanted to own and enjoy me like he did his wine, his golf, and his tennis. Well, I wasn't about to be anybody's possession. I might have once, and verily did, in my twenties. But in my forties? With a life, job, family and friends that I love and cherish, all balanced out happily in my boat? No way.

Bye bye American Pie. You wanted a post about you, you got it!