Gilda Page 5
agreed between participants.”
“Yeah, but—”
“The age difference means nothing,” Gilda stated. “Do you think animals know the age of whatever other animals they screw? And, hormones driving sex are much stronger than emotions controlling adherence to religious rules or society’s laws. One does not need to understand the workings of the brain to know that: one must merely observe human behavior.”
“True, but you won’t find many fans of that way of thinking.”
“If you and I had grown up on different sides of a deserted island and met by chance, the only thing driving us would be natural urges.”
“That’s rather far-fetched.”
Gilda shook her head.
“That’s why I want to understand the brain,” she said. “That way, we’ll know the difference between the impact of nature and of nurture. All we have now are theories and disagreements, which are all flawed. I know that the brain is driven by electrical impulses, which are all chemical in nature. Social mores have no chemical or mathematical foundation.”
“So, what you’re saying—from my simple-minded point of view—is that sex is okay?”
Gilda laughed.
“I hope it’ll be better than okay,” she said. “And, if it’ll ease your conscience, you won’t be breaking any of the Ten Commandments.”
“Maybe not, but this is a state founded on guilt,” I said. “Massachusetts is where they burned witches and forced adulterers to wear a big red A.”
“I’m guilty of neither. At least they didn’t burn Jews.”
“Ooh,” I said. “Good thing no one can hear us. Anyway, you’ve convinced me that there’s nothing unnatural about us jumping into bed together. That said, many—especially Karen’s friends—would consider what I am about to do immoral.”
“No one will know.”
“Here are the facts, your honor: the defendant is almost twice as old as the young lady.”
“Closer to 16 years, and nature doesn’t care.”
“We’re not married.”
“No law of nature requires a piece of paper.”
“My wife just died.”
“Again, nature does not demand mourning and certainly does not define a period. Understanding the brain should explain grief, but will not provide a necessary mourning time.”
“You must be desperate.”
Gilda laughed.
“I’m not. I’m being rational. And, human.”
We reached the door to my building, so I paused. I had a choice: we could go upstairs or I could have the concierge order a taxi. I could spend the night—alone—with a clear conscious or ignore the puritan whispering in my ear and let Gilda share my bed.
“Is your moral self still battling with your natural self?” Gilda asked, a smirk on her face.
“No contest,” I lied, and opened the door.
We did not speak in the elevator. Gilda clung to my arm, as if afraid to lose me. I could not escape, even if I wanted to. Because she was so hung up on the brain, I had begun to think about its workings…something I had never done before. She had pointed out that sex drive is like hunger: it cannot be denied. Still, people try to avoid having to make love. She had refused to let anyone that she did not desire touch her, and I have let concern about mourning the death of my wife worry me and—up to this point—inhibit me. One seemed to be driven by physical desire and the other by morality; one was natural, and the other was social. Different impulses were making human brains, albeit one female and one male, direct a similar action. I decided that she had a lot of work to do.
A fly on the wall of my bedroom would have been unable to determine who enjoyed themselves most. But, said fly would not understand the complexity of sex and could not know the turmoil in my brain. Despite all we had discussed and my acquiescence, I still felt guilty about having so much pleasure in a bed I had shared with a wife now dead, especially since she had suffered so much.
Perhaps, as harsh as this might sounds, I should be grateful that Karen had died. If I had met Gilda when she was still alive, I would have had a serious dilemma. Then again, would she still have turned my head? I had met Gilda only because Karen had died. Some would say that it was fate. Or luck. Or…life.
Although insignificant in comparison, I still worried about having a relationship with someone so young. What would people, especially those at my school, say about me being with someone near the age of my older students? Of course, her intelligence placed her in a different league, but people would judge by outward impressions, and they would judge critically. Did I care? Should I care? Gilda would say that such sentiments were conceived by humans and, therefore, unnatural and of no concern. But, I could not deny my concern.
Gilda hugged me and then kissed me.
“That was worth waiting for,” she said.
“Why did you want me to touch you and none of the other guys that might have tried?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps the answer is related to why you let mourning prevent you.”
“Up to a point.”
“Understanding the brain is not needed to understand sex drive—that’s chemical and electrical—but it might explain our reluctance. It’s obvious that something’s going on up there.”
Gilda tapped her head. My mind had been spinning, like one of those irritating beach balls on a Mac screen—you have no idea what’s happening, but something was moving inside—without reaching any meaningful conclusions.
“I just thought of a movie,” I said. “I hope I don’t wake up with an ice pick in my heart.”
She pushed away and sat up. Her expression was more surprise than anger. I had been trying to be ironic.
“If I put it in your heart, you won’t wake up.”
“Yes, doctor. But, those are the fears of an old man with a young lover.”
Gilda put a hand on my neck and pulled me towards her.
“I am not that shallow,” she said. “I didn’t fall for you just so I could leave you. And, I hope you’re still not struggling with morality.”
“I was just thinking that I might lose some friends. Especially Karen’s.”
“Will that bother you?”
“It shouldn’t,” I replied. “If someone rejects me, because I fall in love, then they were never a true friend.”
Later, Gilda lay beside me, breathing softly. I stared at the ceiling and contemplated the fact that Gilda lay beside me in my bed.
What had lured me into this moral dilemma—which I had quickly ignored—in the first place, I wondered for the umpteenth time? Her beauty? Her intelligence? Her character? My vulnerability? My loneliness? Or, simply, the fact that she let me into her pants? Something more than mere sex drive must be at work. More likely, it was a combination of all aspects of Gilda’s and my character and situation. If one aspect had been missing or different, would we have ended up in each other’s arms in my bed? No one, least of all me, could determine why people are attracted to one another. They just are. And, we were. I had assumed that, after Karen died, I would never be attracted to another woman. But, I was.
When I awoke the next morning, I found Gilda eying me. A smile spread across her face.
“I’ve never spent the night with a man.”
“I hope I didn’t steal the blanket. Or snore.”
She giggled, shook her head, and snuggled closer. I expected her to ask me how I had liked the sex with her: a standard morning-after question. I would have to lie. I had learned long ago that sex with a beautiful woman is never the same, but always the same. None want to hear that.
“I want to wake up every morning beside you,” she said.
Surprised, I hugged her.
“Well, Gilda Rubin, I’ll guess you’ll just have to move in.”
*
I stopped counting the number of times I saw Gilda.
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