― Paulo Coelho
Sylvia
There was no doubt Victor possessed some mystic ability to exert power over me. While we were conversing in the bar, he mesmerized me with his presence and his voice.
It was uncanny—I felt as if I had been hypnotized and found myself at the mercy of his suggestions.
I actually just didn’t listen to his story—I was swept up into it and became a participant in it. He was the wise older soul and I was the young impulsive fool who was self- deluded into thinking I was about to dominate society.
Victor certainly put me in my place. I felt chastened rebuked for over-reaching my station in life and presuming I could assume a role equal to his.
There was no doubt—he wasn’t a rival, but my master and I was simply a mere poseur attempting to be something I wasn’t.
After Victor walked away, leaving me sobered and depleted, I ordered a double scotch, and felt its fire warm me all the way down.
So much for bloody old men and their wisdom, I grumbled and ordered another and was onto my third double when Tess and Sylvia finally arrived.
Both women were overjoyed to see me, but Sylvia seemed unusually friendly.
She actually smiled at me. “Thank God you didn’t leave, Gray—we’ve had a horrid night, but I know you’ll make things better.”
I sat back and smiled genially at her—sizing her up, and then, chuckled quietly. It was a queer laugh—the short, cynical snort of a jaded man.
Perhaps Victor did teach me something—to not place my trust in anyone—certainly not women.
My resolution lasted through the night and into the next month, but it was damnably frustrating because I was obsessed with Sylvia and guilty about using Tess to get close to her.
Tormented and faithless—that about summed me up.
I tried to put her behind me, but she still haunted and inflamed me.
The moment I decided I was done once and for all, the flint of my passion struck the stone of her indifference and I was back in her thrall.
The irony is, no one knew, least of all, Sylvia.
I had strung out this fantasy through numberless Moons like pearls on a chain—it was my lucid dream of possessing her one fine day. Admittedly, the possibility was remote, but I lied to myself, believing it subject to change.
I knew it was futile –she’s twenty-two and I’m twice her age.
She’s oblivious, indifferent and maddeningly blasé—inaccessible as the stars—and that’s precisely why I fantasize about winning her and displaying her as a trophy on my arm.
I turned back from brooding over the Toronto skyline and tossed an engraved invitation onto my desk—it was from Victor Goldman—now completely retired, inviting the staff to his 70th birthday party at his Muskoka lodge.
I shook my head sadly.
I missed him—the only hero I ever had. The women in the firm still refer to him admiringly as The Most Interesting Man In The World—and that at seventy!
Lucky bastard. I hated his guts but envied him. He wouldn’t be in my position. Not Victor. He’d act decisively and sweep Sylvia off her feet—jet away her away to the south of France and she’d be his kept woman. No doubt about that.
Me? I was just some pitiful Prufrock wondering if I dared disturb the universe, afraid Sylvia might laugh at me with her friends.
But I wasn’t going through some mid-life crisis. Sylvia’s friend, Tess, only a year older than her, still adored me.
She was pretty, and vivacious, but compared to Sylvia—well, she’s not in her league.
Victor destroyed some of my dreams and brought me back to reality with a thump, but I still think I could manage to woo Sylvia despite the fact I’m twice her age.
Some might say it’s the vain fantasy of a middle-aged bachelor who’s reaching for the stars, but I think it’s possible.
Male menopause? I think not.
Thank you!