An Altered View
It’s not quite a first date, and that’s okay because I am too old for first dates anyway. We are in his hotel room, one of those Ivy League clubs for alum visiting the city. It is winter and the heat is hissing from the vent by the window overlooking West 44th Street. The room is pleasant and smells like soap. He is staying there for a conference, and I took the Amtrak to meet him because it is better than dating in my small-town hometown where there is not a man I would consider as they either look like my ex-husband or are related to him. We’ve had a few glasses of wine and rather abruptly, he is about to kiss me.
I manage to toss my glasses to the side which is awkward since we are somehow suddenly lying face to face on the bed. My one arm is pinned down under my own weight because it has been so long since I’ve been in a position like this, kissing drunkenly, and I don’t remember what to do with the downward arm. Then, considering the surprising up-close intimacy, I wonder, “Is he nearsighted or farsighted?” If he is nearsighted and his eyes are open, from this proximity I’m certain he notices that I didn’t pluck my eyebrows evenly or maybe missed some of the upper lip hairs that have now decided to sprout there instead of a more convenient place like my leg where I can actually see them and remove them even though I don’t wear my glasses in the shower because they fog, and I am farsighted. Regardless, because of my hyperopia, when I peek from about an inch away, he looks absolutely thirty, and I feel a whole lot younger, well, than I am.
Everything is fine until we sit up again, and I am groping for my glasses. He is sitting on them, and though we laugh, it’s not as funny from my unfocused perspective. I still have to read the train schedule which is prepared for people with perfect vision (for example, those young enough for first dates) or those with nearsightedness. Though altered vision definitely has its aforementioned disadvantages, it is now distinctly an advantage because my glasses are crushed, and without my usual clarity of vision, I am experiencing these hours through the quixotic perspective of a soft -focus lens.
And although this is decidedly not as youthful as most first dates, I am heartened to tell you, there is nothing quite so romantic, at any age, as kissing in the back seat of a taxi that is zipping through late night New York City haze and sirens to deliver us to the train station where I will depart for my small town after he deciphers the train schedule and kisses me one more time. It’s then I notice, thank heavens, he kisses with his eyes closed.
published in Corvus Review