You fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of a color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play…it is on these things that our lives depend.
-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
I have only seen him once in real life. I call him Dorian, for Dorian Gray. A beautiful young man, much younger than me. He comes to my dreams where I can’t look away.
That day I was shopping in one of those upscale grocery stores, the kind where they always have fresh dragon fruit, and cheeses with lavender and espresso caked rinds. He worked in the deli, my Dorian Gray. A young man in his twenties. Twenty-two, twenty-three. He was slicing brisket. Paused, and took his hair net off. Long auburn locks fell down on his shoulders and I thought for a moment I might fall to the floor.
He drank in sips from a green and white tumbler, and lifted his head like a lord or a serpent. Looked around, without seeing or caring. His skin was the color of peach ice cream. His eyes were the color of rivers in heaven.
I pretended to pick through brioche loaves, and I watched him walk like a god through the store. He was tall and wore black; black shirt, black pants. I pictured him reading his poetry to me. I pictured myself singing lullabies to him.
My cart was filled with fresh butter lettuce, heirloom tomatoes and crusty baguettes. I put the bags on the seat beside me. The car was warm. It was starting to rain. I thought about Dorian all the way home.
When I was young I would’ve approached him. Eyelashes fluttering, I would’ve said, call me, and given him my number. And he would’ve called. They always called. I was pretty then. I’m not pretty now. My eyelash-fluttering days are over. I’m in my late fifties and old enough, literally, to be his mother.
I thank God for that and he should too, my Dorian Gray; there was a time, love gave me its heart without thinking twice. And I gave it mine. What there was of it.
But a tone, a look, a favorite book or a song forgotten; I always managed to become disenchanted. Then I waited and watched, and when I was certain that love wasn’t looking, something heavy and hard came down on its head.
I was beautiful once. And thoughtless and cruel. And he is young, my Dorian Gray; that part of myself lies dying or dead. Gasping, perhaps, under red satin drapes, and he walks like a god through my dreams every night, where I can’t look away and where I can’t touch. I thought I was safe. I thought I was strong. I ache for him now and it serves me right.