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Love Story #1496
The Same Age
by Viola Ashford (pen-name)
THE SAME AGE
‘Where is he now?’ I wonder sometimes looking out of the window from the train on my way to work, or late at night restless in bed. Thinking and dreaming of him. My misery will only intensify if I find him, however. Even if he’s still single, like me, there can never be any future between us. It is best to leave it alone, and think of him sometimes. It is best that he disappeared from my life without trace.
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He is the young and successful owner of a large CD store in the city. I think he is cute so I make any excuse to buy some music. This is hard on the bank balance, but otherwise no sacrifice. I love music, especially Irish bands, like U2 and the Corrs. He doesn’t exactly seem to mind my dropping in, and I get the impression that he likes me too, although I don’t understand why he doesn’t ask me out. Especially after I find out that he didn’t have a girlfriend.
He shares my interest in music, and we also enjoy the same films, and books – biographies and American history. We even discuss religion – he is not a practising Catholic and I am. I wear figure-hugging dresses showing off my good figure, give him the eye, flirt but there is one problem – my age. I know that he is probably in his mid-twenties, and just don’t want to believe it, wanting to think that he was over 30. I am 37. He keeps trying to find out, and I avoid the issue. One day when it can’t be avoided any longer, he tells me that he is 25. ‘And you’, he says, ‘you’re not much older?’ Oh my God!, I think. A 12 year difference between us. What to do? Even if I put my age down four years I’ll still be eight years older. We’ll still want different things. I ‘m ready to get married and have a child or two – very ready, in fact, although not desperate. He wants to play the field, work overseas, and be free for a while. I know that from talking to him.
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In my dreams still we’re the same age. I’m 25 again, younger and prettier. I don’t have to think about lines below my eyes, no cellulite, and no crows feet. I’ve never heard of eye cream and neck cream. I haven’t got the beautiful apartment I have now, lots of money in the bank, and as highly-paid a career as a journalist, but what do I care? I’m on my way to it.
We go to the movies, we have picnics on green and grassy cliffs by the sea, we go to bed for three days like Jane Fonda and Robert Redford in ‘Barefoot in the Park’ and never get tired. Eventually we get married, honeymoon in Paris, and have three or four children. ___________________________________________________
I did put my age down, but only by two years. I knew that we would still have enjoyable conversations, but he wouldn’t like my being so much older, and there was no reason why he should. He looked sad and disappointed, which was sweet, but we both knew that any suggestion of romance was over. Maybe it would have been different if I’d been a man and he’d been a woman, but that’s doubtful, too. Age differences are often difficult, although more accepted if the man is older, even now.
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In my dreams he kisses me awake, brings me breakfast in bed, we share romantic dinners, we laugh at the cute antics of our children. He reads poetry to me before we go to bed – he has a beautiful voice.
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His age was a shock. I’d convinced myself that he was 33 or 34 – old enough to be ready to settle down.
I went shopping to try and feel better, but I couldn’t help crying. There are so few men that I like, let alone am interested in. And how many are lovers of Jane Austen, Shakespeare and history? Very few.
He saw me from across the road. Did he know that I’d been crying? Probably – he looked sympathetic, but he was certainly the last person that I wanted to see. I didn’t hang around him too much after that. I didn’t want to be thought of as silly, or even worse, sleazy. A woman who’d made a fool of herself over a younger man. I didn’t even want to go out with him in reality. Someone older and more experienced would suit me better, and I didn’t want to worry about younger women with cropped tops and no wrinkles. I knew that it wasn’t likely to work.
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The last day has come. He tells me that he’s leaving. He’s got a good job overseas as a record producer. He loved London when he went there on holiday and now he has the chance to work there. I turn away. There are tears in my eyes. This is ridiculous, I think. It’s just a little crush after all. I’m not in love with him. It’s an infatuation; a romantic fantasy. If it were meant to be, I tell myself, then we would be the same age, for a start.
We’re alone in the shop. Outside it is cold and the rain is pouring down. The perfect day in which to feel miserable; to have one’s heart broken. He wipes the tears from my eyes and hugs me. He says that he likes me too, but it can’t work. He’s not ready; he wants to be free. I know, I say. He strokes my hair and suddenly we’re kissing. A long, slow and very passionate kiss.
I’m the one who has to go. I’m the one who has to break away. It’s difficult, almost impossible. Finally I let go of his hand. We wish each other goodbye and good luck. I tell him that I will remember him. I wipe my tears away again, look at him once more, and then I walk very, very quickly to the train station, knowing that I’ll never see him again.
Notes From The Author:
You may e-mail me with any comments about my story.
To those disappointed in romance. May you find true love.
I usually write articles about history and travel mainly. One of my dreams, however, is to write a romantic novel, so I thought I'd try my hand at romantic short stories first. I hope that you like it!
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