Senior Love

“You look gorgeous.” Patricia stopped in her tracks and turned around with a big smile. She was shocked by who was there, not believing the compliment came from the handsome man before her. “Hi,” she said. “Are you going to the Spring dance?” She felt nervous standing there in the middle of the large lobby and was unsure what to say. She had moved to this retirement home, Brighton Gardens, two months ago in the dead of winter at her daughter and son-in-law’s insistence (demand) and had yet to make any close friends much less be hit on by a man, especially one that, like her, was free of a walker and still had a dash of his once decent looks. Her son-in-law teased her during the move that all assisted living homes were like Ancient Rome when it came to sex, but Patricia had yet to see anyone interesting during the daily activities and meals, or that, frankly, she could even imagine having the strength and energy to copulate. Anyone of them looked like they might thud head first into their bowl of soup or have their arms drop to their sides during chair yoga, dead. Until now. 

“I’m going if you’re going,” he responded, smiling a wide denture-free smile. Patricia clasped her hands together, making a small clap. Could this be happening -- not only was he handsome but he could flirt! “Patricia,” she said, extending her hand. “James,” he said, taking it. James was a smart sounding name not cheapened down to Jim. “What’s this dance? I know nothing about it, Patricia, I’m a bit of an anchorite here.” They were still holding hands. “A what?,” she asked. “An anchorite. A hermit, a recluse,” he explained, pulling his hand away. James was someone who talked with his hands so he needed them to speak. “I’m only kidding but I tend to skip the social affairs, but this, this sounds like a truly grand occasion, Patricia, a ball,” he quipped, “we simply must go.” “Well I’m new here,” she said. “A virgin,” James interrupted with a laugh. “Yes,” Patricia said, and then, lowering her voice despite no one being in ear-shot, “be gentle.” James stepped closer to her, as if to tell a secret. “It’s getting close to my bed time, Patricia. After my bedtime all bets are off. If I’m up past my bedtime I become quite the degenerate.” “One pot of coffee coming right up,” she said, lifting and waving a finger in the air, a mock directive, perhaps to God, or some great spirit, to bring this act, whatever it was to be, to fruition.

The Spring Dance was held in the dining hall, where all the big activities took place. In fact it didn’t look much different from the mealtime set up. Instead of maybe twenty of those large round tables there were fifteen. There was a four-person band and a coffee station with  cookies. No one was dancing but staffers nodded their heads and swayed with exaggeration as they brought around coffee, and several of the seniors present were dressed up. Charles, a ninety-seven year-old African American and WWII vet, whom the staffers called Mr. Charles, had on a three piece suit that looked like it might swallow him whole, his head barely peeking above the collar.

  Patricia paused for a moment when she and James entered the dining room, thinking about where they should best sit only to realize it didn’t matter. In hearing about retirement communities and their supposed hook up culture, it wasn’t STDs that particularly worried Patricia but gossip. Patricia had essentially become a loner starting way back in junior high school in order to escape the wildfire of gossip that swirled when she, say, sat next to a boy on the school bus. When scanning the lifeless faces of her neighbors at the Dance she remembered the bulk of the Brighton Gardens population wasn’t concerned with trysts but with chewing, digesting and pooping. Constipation was a regular topic of conversation here. Not giving a shit about shit, Patricia and James chose a table by the entrance, not trying to avoid anyone but simply so they could have some distance from the band in order to hear each other better. Patricia felt, for the first time in a long time, cool. 

Easing up on the flirtation, Patricia and James set about enjoying something else: each other's bios. James was an 83 year-old retired English professor who had taught for thirty-some years at a small public university in Holland, Michigan. Twice divorced, he didn’t have any kids. He once had a house in the center of town but it was too much work, so he sold it and between his pension and social security he was able to pay Brighton’s fees. “I like the community here, Patricia. It’s awfully lonely, being by oneself in an apartment,” he said. The arts were his life -- he was a voracious reader, and occasional writer, working on a book about film. “It’s far from finished but I’ve got a great title: The Movies that Made the Movies.” He had just returned from two months in Thailand. “The winter is too much for me here. And the Thais are the nicest people on Earth, Patricia,” James said. 

In turn, Patricia revealed she was 86. “A cradle-robber, Patricia, how dare you.” They both had a chuckle and James was quick to follow, “You really look great. I wouldn’t have said you were over seventy. My hand to God, Patricia. Your figure is impeccable.” Patricia was, in fact, proud of her figure. Throughout her youth she was a figure skater and as an adult she prided herself on not letting her waistline increase in size. Further, she never added refined sugar to her meals, avoided flour, and, unlike her fellow Michiganders, tried to walk everywhere. Patricia told James about her many years in public service, working for the Michigan state government and later for a non-profit that helped pair foster kids with adoptive families. “You are an angel,” James complimented her. She had been married once, briefly, but her husband left her when their child was just two. She didn’t want to share with James now but she had barely been with anyone since her husband split. It had essentially been 50 plus years of sexual desires on mute, where she focused on raising her child and work. Being in James’ presence made Patricia feel womanly. He had waited for her to sit at the table before he sat down and that, as her father used to say, was “like money in the bank.” 

The band took a break at Patricia and James made small talk about the facility and their neighbors, the activities on tap for the rest of the month, reaching for things to fill the air. “James,” she used his name for the first time. He had been using hers non-stop. Her father had done that when talking with someone as well, saying doing so made strangers feel a kinship with you. Usually, Patricia found it annoying, but she used it here to give herself a platform for a gamble. “I have some quite nice teas in my room. If you’d like you could join me.” James stared at her nodding but, for a change, not speaking. “I could show you some photographs of where I used to live and of my daughter and son-in-law and a trip we took to England a few years ago.” “Patricia that sounds lovely. Really, really lovely,” James said, trying to emit a deep sincerity. “I’m on the 2nd floor, two oh nine,” she told him. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot, Patricia, I haven’t done this in so long. Gosh what a fool. You mean now, yes, yes. Of course,” James said, shaking his head. “You’re not too tired, are you James,” she said with a forced laugh. James smiled and sat up straight, as if steeling himself for duty. “No, no, not at all. I’m just going to run up to my place for a minute, then I’ll be right over.”

 Patricia dreaded being naked before James, or anyone for that matter, her skin was loose in so many places. She stood before the bathroom mirror applying red lipstick and examining the deep wrinkles in her face. She couldn’t believe she was about to entertain a man and that they might be intimate. She wanted to call her daughter, partly to brag and partly to ask what to do. The lights were a problem -- there was no dimming them. All the units were small studio apartments with a strong ceiling light. She couldn’t just cut it off, as they wouldn't be able to see what the hell they were doing. They would have to be intimate under a harsh light like lab rats. 

“Knock knock,” James’ said, “are you decent?” “Yes! Come on in. Forgive the total lack of decoration. I’m new as I told you. And my art is all in storage or at my daughter’s.” “I’m just happy to see you, Patricia, you are such a delight, such a pleasure to be with and talk to, the freshest air I’ve breathed since I’ve moved into this place, really.” Patricia wanted to cry. She gave James a hug which he received delicately, like she was an estranged relative rather than a soon-to-be partner in sexual congress. In one hand he was holding two chocolates with purple tinfoil wrappers. “They had these by the front desk in the lobby, I don’t know if you saw them, I thought you might want one?,” he asked. 

Sitting on her couch Patricia showed James photos of the Lake District in England, “my favorite place on Earth,” of her work colleagues, her best friends from college, her daughter and son-in-law. Patricia got to the last page and closed the album, patting its cover twice, perhaps to say, enough of that. She placed a hand on top of James’ hand that was closest to her on the couch. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, James.” She patted his hand like she did the photo album. “You seem a great man. You’re well-traveled, a good talker, and erudite. All things I admire.” She paused and turned to look him in the eye, her hand still rested on top of his. “And if I am honest, you are a pretty sexy guy.” James shifted so he was facing her but inched away. He broke his hand free and patted his knees. “You are such an amazing woman, Patricia. You’ve lived such a full life. I applaud you. I have to say though that my stomach isn’t well. Often the food downstairs doesn’t sit with me.” He was lying.

She could’ve played along offering him pink goop for his stomach or other over the counter drugs but she was tired. Tired of the flash of interest with no delivery. “I don’t have anything here. Maybe they’ve got something downstairs.” “That’s a good idea, Patricia. You know how to come up with quick solutions.” “You don’t have to say my name every time,” she blurted. “I’m sorry. You don’t want me to use your name, do you not like your name?,” James asked. “I like it fine, but we’re the only two people in this tiny room, so it’s not like I don’t know who you’re talking to. It gets irritating, I feel like you’re my teacher.” “Well I’m sorry, Patricia.” She shot him a look. “Damnit, I’m sorry. Okay, I better just leave. Look, let’s be friends. You’re really great. I mean it. I could talk to you for hours. How about we have coffee downstairs tomorrow? And a walk, we could take the shuttle into town and walk.”

What was the point, she wanted to ask, was this a runner-up prize, a facsimile of companionship? Patricia knew downtown backwards and forwards, and, frankly, if she was going to walk, she wanted her own thoughts to accompany her, not someone who would repeat her name like a parrot, not if they weren’t going to fuck. “My afternoons I like to have to myself. It’s respite from the dull conversations at lunch. “Well I’ll join you for lunch,” James countered. “Why don’t you give your stomach some rest. Work up an appetite," she advised. "We can find each other when the time is right.” 

After James left Patricia saw one of the chocolates James had brought. She felt a tinge of anger that she had eaten the other one, having done so merely to please him. She had to pee so she dropped the chocolate, still in its wrapper, in the toilet, peed and flushed, sending the chocolate and James, elsewhere.