Gilda Page 4

  *

  The fourth time I saw Gilda, she surprised me even more.

  As I drove to Cambridge to pick up a woman for a dinner date—something I would not have imagined ever happening earlier in the week—I thought back on the past few days. Gilda had been in and out of my thoughts. I replayed the time we had been together, thought about things she had said, and toyed with fantasies, which I knew were far-fetched. The fact that she had come to see me play lacrosse and had mentioned the pull of chemistry puzzled me. What had she meant by not fighting chemistry? Was this clever girl playing games with my brain? Or, was my brain playing games of its own?

  Of course, I was also plagued with guilt: guilt about being infatuated with another woman so soon after Karen’s death and guilt about having fantasies involving a younger woman. I worried about the consequences of being seen together and about the consequences, if I got in deeper—if that was even an option. Summer break was a blessing and a curse. I was being kept from nothing important, but I also had too much time on my hands to think foolish thoughts. In the few rational moments, I reminded myself that I was not a teenager in heat, so should not act like one.

  When I stopped in front at the appointed hour, Gilda emerged from the house. This suggested that she had been waiting and watching from inside the door. I had always had to wait for Karen. Damn, I thought. I should not compare…but comparisons were inevitable. As I jumped out to open the door, I thought of Gilda’s quest to understand the brain. Would she discover why humans always compare? And, why someone can act like a foolish teenager at any age?

  Once again, her smile gripped me. She wore a slim-fit, sleeveless black dress with a hemline just above the knee. This was less-revealing than the sundress, but more tantalizing. She had traded the flip flops for leather sandals.

  “You look very nice,” I said.

  Closer, I could see that, once again, she used no make-up, which would surely blemish her flawless beauty. There could be a hint of lip gloss, or she could have just licked her lips.

  She pecked me on the cheek, and I detected a hint of subtle scent.

  “Thanks,” she replied. “You’ve now seen my entire wardrobe of dresses.”

  Once again, my mind sprang to compare. I had recently hauled boxes and bags of Karen’s clothes to the Salvation Army. My brain was at work again in its strange ways.

  “It’s enough for me, if it’s enough for you.”

  “I don’t have many occasions to wear a dress, so it’s enough. Last time I wore this was at graduation two years ago.”

  Again, I was pleased to learn that boyfriends did not plague her existence. Not that it mattered…

  “How was work?” I asked, to stay on safe ground.

  “Hospital work experience is great, but it’s not moving the ball ahead fast enough. I wish I could take more classes than I do, but I need the money.”

  This attitude helped me to understand why she had been driven to complete high school and college so quickly.

  “This evening, you’re going to have fun and forget about hospitals and school and the brain.”

  “The first two, yes, but not the last one,” she replied. “Where are we going?”

  I had chosen a seafood restaurant on the harbor, not far from my apartment. I wanted to be able to have wine with my dinner, so I would walk home and pay for a taxi to take Gilda to Cambridge.

  “I promised lobster,” I said. “Remember.”

  “How could I forget? I can’t remember the last time I ate lobster.”

  The restaurant was crowded and louder than the Italian place, but I managed to beg a decent table in a corner. I conceded the view for relative seclusion at a less-popular table.

  “I hope you don’t mind not having a view,” I said. “It’s better for conversation back here, though we might have to wave for service.”

  “I don’t need a view,” Gilda replied. “I saw it on the way in, and I can see it on the way out. I prefer conversation with you.”

  As much as I had loved Karen, she had been a pain at times. Like when not getting the table she wanted in a restaurant. That was one reason that I had chosen this restaurant: Karen had refused to eat here, after a run-in with the maitre d’. I had assumed that I would find no reason to compare the two women, but had failed again.

  “Listen, we have to make a deal.”

  Gilda appeared surprised.

  “You order whatever you want and do not use the word expensive,” I said. “Okay?”

  “Don’t throw me in that briar patch.”

  Her reply caused me to laugh out loud. A lady at a nearby table turned and glared. I ignored her and concentrated on Gilda.

  “Do you like Champagne?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Sorry, but these aren’t things I have access to.”

  “I’ll order some, and you can try. If you don’t like it, I’ll order something else.”

  I ordered a half-bottle of the real stuff. To keep things safe, I toasted to health. That seemed to be appropriate, since we had met under very unhealthy circumstances.

  Dinner proceeded with good food and good conversation, which ranged over a variety of subjects. I was impressed by her general knowledge, because high-IQ eggheads with a specific career path can have limited interests. Not Gilda. Her mind seemed to absorb and retain facts like a sponge.

  A second half-bottle of Champagne arrived.

  “I like this stuff,” Gilda said. “Don’t know if it’s worth the price, but I like it.”

  I topped off our glasses and held mine up, as if to toast someone or something.

  “You don’t mind being seen in public with such an old guy.”

  “Nobody knows me,” she replied.

  A sly grin appeared.

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “I don’t care what people think. And, you’re not old: my father is old. He’s 60.”

  “Okay, but what about boyfriends your age?”

  “I’ve never had a boyfriend my age. I was always in classes where everyone was older. Kids my age were—and still are—somewhat infantile and retarded. We didn’t have anything in common.”

  “Didn’t that bother you?”

  “No,” she stated. “I like being with older people, men especially. The problem is that most men can’t handle intelligent women.”

  “I can’t handle dumb ones.”

  “Which could be why I like talking with you.”

  I glanced around for a waiter, in hope of receiving the dessert menu. I felt Gilda place her hand on mine, so I abandoned my search and turned to face her. Her dark eyes bored into mine; her expression suggested desire.

  “I want to sleep with you tonight.”

  “Uh—”

  “Don’t think I’m a slut or a nymphomaniac.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “I haven’t had sex for three years. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because there was no one I wanted to let touch me…or to touch.”

  She squeezed my hand.

  “I want you to hold me and touch me and make love to me.”

  Up until she had touched me, I had not expected such an outcome. Of course, I had had fantasies about sleeping with her, but that was, well, just fantasy. Imagining sex with a pretty girl, who looked great in a sun dress, was standard operating procedure for a heterosexual male of the species. I could not admit this to anyone, because I should be mourning the loss of my wife. And, there was the age difference. Some would call this robbing the cradle.

  “Shall we skip dessert?”

  Gilda beamed and squeezed my hand.

  “I remember liking your face, when I first saw you in the hospital, but talking with you at the river sparked some emotion.”

  “That’s why you came to watch lacrosse?”

  She nodded.

  “I was stalking you.”

  I laughed.

  “I’ve never been stalked. I always thought it was supposed to be something bad.”

  “I’ll
let you decide.”

  The waiter showed up with dessert menus, but I sent him away for the check.

  “I can’t wait to be in bed with you,” Gilda whispered. “I’ve thought about being with you so much.”

  “I guess I can admit to having thoughts about you.”

  “Sex is like hunger: you can’t suppress it.”

  “Why did you go so long without any?”

  “I did it myself,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “I told you already: I just didn’t find anyone I wanted to do it with.”

  I should have become used to her candor, but women talking of sex still surprised me.

  During the walk to my apartment, we alternated between holding hands, Gilda holding my arm, and me putting my arm around her shoulder. My thoughts were a jumble of eager anticipation and guilt. I wanted this woman badly—and not just because of sex drive—but worried about the consequences.

  A red pedestrian light forced us to stop, so I turned to look at Gilda. City lights enhanced her beauty like candles. She smiled and then kissed me.

  “I want you badly,” I said. “But, I’m also torn.”

  “Why?”

  “Any other woman would not, but you know I should be mourning the death of my wife. And, there’s the age difference.”

  She drew her face back and frowned.

  “All human concepts,” she said. “The only thing that matters is what’s driven by nature. Remember what you said on Wednesday? You can’t fake chemistry. But, you can fake morality.”

  “And, you said you shouldn’t fight chemistry.”

  “Which we won’t.”

  She kissed me again, and then the light changed. We hurried across the street, my thoughts in a jumble. The dominant thought in my mind: how soon we forget.

  “Behind closed doors—or wherever there are no witnesses—morals and behavior are