The first time I saw him tired: with his glasses on, hint of dusk under his eyes, more definition to those fine lines which will one day grow into wrinkles…that’s when the tenderness started. Creaky and stiff, like an old leather sofa, some small bellows is blowing at an ember of romantic admiration, a pinprick of lust.
He is quite beautiful to me. The voice resonant with a distinct, clipped patter and not as coachable as I’d like (What? He’s an actor.). A compact body I absolutely hate myself for being drawn to. It seems some golden ratio fulfills my fantasies over the lure of individual features, or elements I intellectually pine for (height, the best arms for hugging). Instead I watch his neat, divinely proportioned figure and estimate his measurements.
He is possessed of a preternatural surety which makes me drool. He is clever and real. Somewhat sensible. Determined. And an eclectic mix of grounded, practical, and joy seeking. I ponder the condition of his abdominal muscles, and if he has scars; want to hear his heartfelt opinion on celery, and if he’ll make his whole life in theatre or harbors a plan B.
Every week I think he won’t be back. Every week I think this is the last time I’ll see him. Get that stone in my gut, because it won’t be the same without him. Try to ignore the whispered ‘It won’t be worth it without him.’ Wonder what I would (will) do if (when) convenience ceases to connect us. That’s the story of, that’s the glory of…
Have to wait and see. Keep guessing if all his hairs are so fair.