Wow, who is that woman? Tall, dark-haired and green-eyed, her clothes perfectly orchestrated with her appearance, she passed by me on that Sunday morning at church, headed toward an empty seat. For a moment, an exotic, delicate but alluring perfume played with my senses, leaving a powerful, lasting effect. After that I didn't hear a word of the service.
"What's ailing you, George? Why are you so restless today? Stop wiggling and turning like you have shingles," Bob was saying.
He is a good friend and a highly reliable CPA. I love him dearly, but I wouldn't discuss feelings with him. He thinks heart is a muscle.
At forty seven, acting like a teenager, I had to turn and look at that siren several times, wondering who she was and hoping that she would start coming to our church. I couldn't tell if she had noticed me at all. All I could see was her self-assured, calm composure with a half smile lingering around her thin, perfectly shaped mouth. Even her makeup was immaculate and subdued like her whole appearance. I felt powerfully attracted to her and wanted to know everything about her. During the service, I rehearsed what I was going to say at the end when we all gather around the table in the corner of our fellowship hall, for coffee, tea and cookies.
As soon as the service ended, I dashed toward the coffee table where the usual crowd of "coffee addicts" gathered. She was nowhere in sight. I turned around and saw her slip through the sliding door headed toward the cars parked in the street. Too late! I checked the guest book to find her name and address. Two women and three men were listed as the visitors. I hadn't noticed anyone but her! One of the names was Mary Smith. That made me smile. For a moment, I had a crazy thought that she might have used a false name to protect her identity, but I abandoned the idea instantly. She wouldn't have chosen such a simple name even in a joke. Mary Smith! It was so common, I immediately imagined a plump woman in oversized sweats with rollers in her hair. The name was followed by the address and a phone number. It was quite near the church, I noticed.
The other name had a ring to it - Solange Holst. That was more like her: unusual, feminine, intriguing. But there was nothing else there: no address, no phone number. Her last name sounded German, while I could've almost bet she was French. Solange! With her exquisite taste, she had to be French. The German name could be her husband's. I felt a stabbing pain at the thought. She can't, she mustn't, be married. What if she is, though? Please, God, don't do this to me.
I had to find out, so I drove by Mary Smith's home. It was a small home, nothing sophisticated. My green-eyed nymph couldn't live there. It was childish, I know, but I just had to do it: I rushed home and called Mary's number.
There was a lot of racket in the background and a child's voice shyly asked: "Who is this?"
"My name is George. Is Mary Smith there?" I was nervous; a professor and a public speaker, I was now more nervous than that child. Almost stammering, I added fast: "Is your mom at home?"
"Mo-o-o-om," was the response on the other side. A baby was crying in the distance and some other voices were heard. I waited, full of ambiguous fear and guilt, for what seemed a small eternity. All of a sudden, a soft, out-of-breath woman's voice said: "Yes? This is Mary." She sounded as if she came running from somewhere. Her voice was sweet, though, and almost as child-like as her daughter's.
"My name is George Simms and I usually greet the newcomers to our church. I'm sorry I missed greeting you today. I hope I'm not disturbing your Sunday dinner with my call."
"Oh, not at all. I'll have to finish cooking it first, but the kids are being too restless today. My husband isn't here."
"I'm embarrassed to ask, but can you describe yourself. I can't quite place you, although I usually know who is new."
"Oh, that's all right. There were many people. I sat in the last row, at the end, close to the door. I am short, blond, and a bit on the heavy side. In fact, I am much heavier than I would like to be. I have three children, one is a baby, so, you know..."
She was obviously apologizing for her neglected figure.
She couldn't know how I loved her for being blond and on the heavy side. I was a step closer to my goal. She was married and she was not the woman of my dreams. "I think I have noticed you. You look much better than you are giving yourself credit for." And I almost meant it, I was so overwhelmed with love and gratitude. "I won't keep you any longer. I'd just like to welcome you. Hope we'll see you again with your whole family."
"Thank you. We'll be back since we're in the neighborhood and need a church, especially for the kids. I liked it today."
A sigh of relief and a tide of warmth for that dear woman swept over me. Thank God, it is not my siren. Mary is a good person, and I wish her well, but Solange is the one I must pursue.
"Solange... Solange..." I repeated endlessly, whispering and calling as if she could hear and come to me. Her name sounded sweeter, more intriguing each time. I hoped passionately she was not married... God, don't let that happen to me, now that I have found the woman of my dreams. Solange, Solange, we are going to get to know each other quite well. Next Sunday I will not let you disappear like Cinderella. A flood of happiness engulfed me. This is it. I know. I can feel it. This is it, this time.
Never before did I feel so attracted to anyone, so sure that she was the right woman for me. With Susan, for instance, I'd never felt physical attraction at all. She'd been a good, supportive friend, one I could always rely on, yet I'd never felt quite comfortable with her. I couldn't see myself married to her for the rest of my life. No romance there.
Cleo was quite a different story. She picked me up at an art exhibit reception. I was powerfully attracted to her from the start. She was gorgeous: with a body of a goddess, her honey-colored hair long below her waist. Soon I was addicted to her and I knew it. She knew it, too. But, she didn't care for me too long, for some reason. One day she just said: "It's not working," and stopped seeing me. It took me a year to recover, although I knew she was not good for me: an incurable alcoholic.
I know Solange is not that kind of a woman. She is so classy, so sophisticated, quite on a different plane. And, against my better judgment, I grabbed the local telephone book and started reading all the Holsts. There were several. Not her name, though. Probably listed under her husband's name, or unlisted. Desperately, I was hoping for the latter.
Waiting until Sunday was torture. I spent most of the time day dreaming about all kinds of possible situations with Solange and me in the leading roles. Like she is at church and sprains her ankle. I take her to the hospital, then to her home, and after that we become inseparable. She is grateful and falls in love with me. Or, she is going through a divorce and looking for a job. Somebody tells her I am teaching business writing, so she asks me for help with her resume. She invites me to her home. We work on her resume, then she needs some other help. I become indispensable, and, gradually, we become lovers.
I had several different versions of the "story" in which she is temporarily incapacitated, so I take care of her: shop, cook, feed her, and -- of course -- dress and undress her. She is shy at first, but learns to trust me. We become close and comfortable with each other, so the rest comes naturally.
The next Sunday, to make sure I don't miss her, I stood at the church door greeting the newcomers. Mary Smith came with her husband and three kids. She was just as I imagined her: a sweet, slightly overweight blonde with a heart shaped face and innocent eyes. Her husband was awkwardly towering over her: dark, with huge mustache, he was one of those good men who never know what to do with their hands and where to put the hat.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Welcome!" I greeted them warmly. "I am George, the one who wouldn't let you eat your Sunday dinner." It was so easy to feel genuine love for those simple, good people. Mary proudly radiated love for her family and the whole world. "It is so good to meet you all. Lovely children," and I shook hands with the husband. Mary blushed, looking up at her giant husband with pride. A healthy-looking baby in her arms was fast asleep. A boy, probably six years old, was a miniature replica of his father, already overly serious. The girl, slightly older, smiled shyly, as if remembering our phone conversation.
"We'd appreciate if you'd show us where the kids are supposed to go," said the father, and Mary added:" I hope the baby won't bother anyone. She is usually quiet." I took them upstairs, worried that Solange might come while I was not there.
"Your kids will enjoy their new friends. They'll have fun here, believe me," and I took them back to the fellowship hall and showed them some seats in the front rows.
Just then, while I was quickly returning to the entrance, Solange entered. Alone again, in an emerald suit with a white silk blouse, her eyes greener and deeper than ever.
"Good to see you again, Solange." My heart was beating so wildly, I was afraid she could hear it. And her voice, so sexy, so deep, it was a shock of pure pleasure to hear it for the first time, when she responded: "Thank you," and glanced at my nametag. "Thank you, George. It's good to be here." It was as if she had known me all along. As if we have known each other for an eternity before we met. "Would you like a name tag, Miss Holst... or is it Mrs. Holst?" - I attempted desperately to resolve my painful dilemma. "Oh, whichever you prefer," she responded nonchalantly and left me to look for a seat. The service was about to start.
I would have been mad at her, if I could. What a tease. What a lovely, lovely tease. But I still didn't know if she was married. She didn't want me to know. Not yet. And, again, I had to sit far from her, as all the seats were taken.
At the end of the service, however, I made sure I was close to the door. When she passed by, I asked, "Would you like to join us for lunch at a near-by Chinese restaurant? We sometimes go there after the service for good food and fellowship."
"Gladly," she said with another smile that felt like a kiss on my cheek. "Very, very gladly, next time." Again, I could not decide whether I was mad, sad, or just disappointed. She had such a way of saying no while her eyes caressed and kissed me, that it made me happy to be alive, no matter what.
When she left, I didn't feel like Chinese food, even less like going home. Our minister, with the guest speaker and several others, was headed toward the local gay and lesbian restaurant that was about to be closed because of poor business. Some people in our congregation made a point of eating there to support the business. I decided to do the same since there was nothing else for me to do anyway. Being around people would help me survive till next Sunday.
The outfit actually consisted of two parts: a bookstore and a restaurant. The walls had posters of John DeAndrea's, Ruth Bernhard's and Edward Weston's gentle nudes, soft and creamy like Ansel Adams' sandy dunes, echoing the same gentle, natural curves of the bodies. New age music, calm and soothing, filled the room. There were people already seated around small tables, eating and chatting. The food was good and healthy and I was glad I hadn't gone to the small Chinese restaurant where, out of habit and laziness, I had gone so often.
At the next table, two young men, holding hands, whispered intimately, exchanging meaningful glances and hushed giggles. Memories shared, I assumed. I didn't want to envy them, but what would I have given to be able to do the same with my Solange.
Solange! As if summoned by my desire, she was in front of my eyes engaged in hugging two men. It was a shock, although I didn't know why. After all, a woman has friends. What do I know about her anyway? She was hugging them in a friendly way. Nothing feminine or sexual about it. In fact, it struck me how she, was not at all feminine at this particular moment. The hugs were a buddy-type, like the ones exchanged by men after winning a game. Nothing to worry about, George. In fact, those two men probably were each other's lovers. Your Solange is still unchained and free. Thinking about it some more, I was happy to know she was an open-minded woman. As sophisticated and refined as she was, I knew she had to be educated and therefore without common prejudices. I hoped she was wise and kind enough to accept the lifestyles different from her own. I knew I could not find a partner in a prejudiced, narrow-minded woman. I have had one in my youth and would not have another. I, in fact neither of us, knew any better then. We were too young. But now, I knew what I wanted, what I needed.
I almost rushed to greet Solange, then realized it would not have been a good time. I would never crowd her, overwhelm her, or threaten her feeling of freedom. No, I would be patient with her, because I want her for "keeps," as the kids say.
That Wednesday, I went to the church singles' dance. I don't usually do that, but it was such a long week. The dance was unusual, to say the least. Our church fellowship hall was turned into a semi-dark nightclub with a huge crystal ball hanging from the ceiling, slowly revolving. Myriads of silvery, flickering flames, like schools of tiny, vibrant fish, were dancing over the walls, our faces, and the whole room. The whole atmosphere was enchanting, like in a fairyland. Some people danced in the middle, embraced tightly, following the beat of their hearts. Others in a loose, friendly grip, were engrossed in conversation more than in the dance. One fragile, enchanted figure danced alone, like a lost child in a dreamland of its own. When she approached, swirling dreamily, like in a trance, I recognized Solange, my Solange.
Without thinking, I approached her saying, "Somebody as beautiful as you should never dance alone," and naturally started to embrace her loosely for a dance. She stepped back, for a second without a smile on her face, and retorted shortly. "No. Thank you. I am enjoying myself this way."
Taken aback, hurt more by her tone than by the words, all I could do was say, "I am sorry. I didn't mean to..." Not knowing what else to say, too embarrassed for words, I left the dance floor and sat in the dark corner to collect myself. Obviously, I'd made a big mistake. I didn't know what I could do to erase it from her memory. I remembered her eyes, her cold tone when she said "No," and knew, without understanding it, that nothing would ever be the same. I wanted to know why. Why couldn't she just dance one dance with me and then excuse herself in any way she wanted? Why did she have to hurt me? What was so terribly wrong in asking her for a dance? I didn't know her well enough to embrace her, I know, but I didn't really "embrace" her. It was more like "shall we dance" type of gesture. Quite natural, not offensive.
I needed to be alone, so I left. First, I decided to write her an apology letter and explain. Explain what? What could I say that she didn't already know? I couldn't even finish the sentence there, at the dance floor. Even now I didn't know what it was I "didn't mean" to do. I wanted to dance with her. After all, we were at a dance. It was a singles' dance. I presume she is single and so am I. What did I do wrong? Like a dog catching his tail, I went on and on, in a circle, more confused at the end than at the beginning of my futile analysis. There was no resolution: Solange was the only one who knew what she didn't like in my action and she would either tell me, or I would have to live without knowing. I couldn't harass her further with insisting.
But the question in my mind persisted: what kind of woman was she. Cruel and heartless? A siren and a man-hater? I realized: I didn't know the woman at all. I had assumed so much, knew so little. Nothing, in fact. Then I remembered Mary Smith's sweet kindness. Maybe that was what I really needed, a woman like Mary: warm, nurturing, understanding. But, she is married. The best women are always taken. And, although I found her sweet, I did not feel attracted to that kind of a woman. That's not something one could rationally explain.
There had to be something wrong with me, I kept thinking. Why couldn't I find somebody to love me? Could it be that I didn't see myself realistically? Did I know what I wanted? Thoughts of that sort I had always had whenever a relationship ended, but it never really helped in learning anything to save me from future disappointments. I knew, there was nothing I could do, only wait and observe Solange. Maybe, later, we could talk and explain things. She needed to find out more about me and then accept me. The hope gave me strength to live on.
There were days, however, when I knew things were not that simple. There was something I could not explain rationally, yet could sense strongly. Deep down, something was telling me there was no hope for Solange and me. What was it? A feeling? A feeling of what? Fear, doubt, foreboding, or just intuition?
Melancholy stayed with me that whole week. Neither food nor sleep had any attraction for me. Her slender silhouette, dancing in the semi-dark church hall kept reappearing in my mind as if trying to tell me something. Obviously, she was a very private, very lonely woman. There was a reason for that, a reason I didn't know, but a reason strong enough that I couldn't change it. She was lost to me. That I knew.
I still was interested in everything about her, still intrigued, but I had no hope of ever coming closer to her, and I stopped trying. It hurt, though. I couldn't believe that losing someone I never had could hurt that much. Emptied and robbed of hope, my life had no meaning, no joy anymore. I fully understood the term "broken heart," that never before had such a personal, direct message.
In the weeks that followed, afraid that Solange might read my secret if our eyes met, I started avoiding her. Now that was impossible, just as impossible it was at first to get to know more about her. Gradually, her name started appearing on all volunteer lists. All of a sudden, she was everywhere: visiting the sick, elderly and dying; teaching kindergarten classes. She was the one who suggested she could do something about our forgotten, dilapidated garden. And she fixed the food for all the committee meetings on Sunday and Wednesday nights. It all made sense to me: those who have no life of their own make the best volunteers. But why? Why she? Smiling and kind to all, she never favored or singled out anyone. She may have been lonely, but she wasn't looking for a relationship. Forget her, George, and go back to your usual bachelor-self.
Out of the blue, one Sunday, while I was greeting the newcomers at church, Solange passed by me and, smiling, gently touched my hand and handed me a note. I opened it instantly. It read: "George, I am sorry. I should have talked to you sooner. But, it is not easy for me either. You are a fine man and I don't want to hurt your feelings. Just trust me. It wouldn't have worked with us. The reason is not you, but me. I hope I have not caused real heartache. There is too much of that in the world without my adding to it. I am having enough of my own. You will find a fine woman you deserve. I have to go on with my own burden. Please forgive me. Solange."
I didn't understand it, but it proved: Solange was, as I always knew, a fine, fine woman. But, as my heart had told me, she was lost to me. The reasons were not important, although I wanted to know them. I trusted her, as she had asked. I respected her reasons, whatever they were, but my heart still lived with the memory of her, with the dreams of what I hope could've been, as a substitute for what now I knew would never be.
When it became available, I did check her address. Not that it mattered anymore. She lived in the country. I could see her being equally kind to animals and plants, working in a beautiful, lush garden. I could see her move through the spacious, sunny rooms with big windows, walking barefoot on the old, creaky wooden floors, listening to soft classical music, arranging flowers in tall, crystal vases. Oh, I could imagine her smiling tenderly, softly talking to me, her eyes sad from compassion... but I knew, I knew now, she was never to be mine.
Spring came reluctantly and our church organized a picnic in the churchyard. The trees were barely opening their tender buds, the grass fresh and young, like baby's hair. All around the building, multicolored clumps of new spring flowers tossed their heads, neatly planted by Solange. People had brought chairs and blankets, baskets of food, balls and racquets. Surrounded by the kids, teaching them to paint the eggs for the approaching Easter., Solange sat on the grass, dressed in a long gypsy skirt and a white blouse, reminding me of Snow White and her little admiring dwarfs. My heart ached at the sight of her.
Restless and unhappy, I could not sit and relax like the others. Wandering from one group to another, seeing people engaged in light conversation and laughter, I hoped to find something that would catch my attention and keep me there. Nothing worked. I felt almost disgusted with people laughing for no real reason, talking about petty, insignificant matters, as if being serious at a picnic would have been a sin. I wondered why I had never noticed their lack of depth before.
Under the old oak tree a group of men sat, seriously talking. I didn't know all them, but I saw Bob there too. When I approached, wearily lowering myself to the grass, "I can't believe it," Bob was saying. "Wouldn't something show, after all? A man's body is different from a woman's."
"Sure, but you've never known him as anything else but a woman," a middle aged man was saying. "I've known him for years, though. We were in a summer camp and I saw him almost naked, swimming. It was seven years ago. He was a man. He is a man. Not a burly, hairy orangutan, not a muscular body-builder, but a sensitive, normally built man. I doubt that he's had a sex-change operation since then. They are too expensive. If you look closer, you'll notice his hands and feet are a bit larger than a woman's. He is a transsexual, there is no doubt about it. He'll tell you honestly, himself, if you ask."
"It must be tragic to have to live like that. Almost between two sexes, not belonging to either one. I'm sure people must often be insensitive, even nasty to him. Does he have a job? How do they know him: as a man or as a woman? There have to be too many difficulties and problems," Bob said recognizing my presence and greeting me with a smile only, not wanting to interrupt the conversation.
"It's a bit more open nowadays, so many men, and women, are coming out of the closet, but seven years ago... Maybe that's why he'd moved here, to start from the beginning. Science has proved: they have no choice. They are what they are, just as we are, too." That same man, unknown to me, reasoned.
"True. I never thought about it, though," another man went on thoughtfully. "We don't choose to be men or women, we don't choose illnesses or talents we have. We live with them the best we can. That is the part of the same human condition," he ended, nodding.
"Yes, but how many people stop to think about it, or learn the truth about it? By many, homosexuality, and bisexuality is still considered an abnormality, a weird choice, unless it's in their own children. Then they learn fast. People hate those who are different, they are afraid of them. You would be surprised how many people are homophobic. Even school children are cruel and violent with those they see as homosexual," somebody cut in, vehemently.
"I know," Bob added, sadness in his voice. "In my neighborhood a boy had been beaten almost to death by other kids. And he was just a bit effeminate, not necessarily gay... Think how lonely trans-sexual people must be. We know about this particular case from our church: no friends, no family... And whom is he supposed to date: a man or a woman? I don't understand. I don't know anything about trans-sexuals. And, honestly, I feel uncomfortable around them, just like with the homosexuals. I don't know what I may say that would hurt their feelings, and I may not even know. It's hard to like something that is so different, you cannot even understand. Maybe, that's where the problem starts. It is downright shameful how little we all know. And we consider ourselves educated people. Before I can make a decision to accept them fully or to reject them, I need to know more. How do I even call him?"
"Just call him Solange and treat him as a woman, if that's what he has told you. Solange is a very fine human being, no matter what gender. I know him." He firmly concluded.
All readily agreed.
Suddenly, I felt sick. Solange? My Solange?
Unable to deal with the shock and an avalanche of mixed feelings, I left the picnic.