American Beauty

Fintan Whelan sat at the table, nursing a beer in his smooth Irish grip, looking down at his empty plate, his long thin fingers silently tapping as if searching for something to do. I watched him intently, memorising how unlined his face remained despite his approaching the threshold of middle-age, that forty marker, stealer of youth. His hair had remained a medium brown free from any trace of grey, almost black but not quite, and his skin was clear, his mouth sufficiently pink and eyes still blue though they were no longer piercing in gaze.

'Mr Whelan,' a voice volunteered, a thin, reedy voice, my own, 'what about one last story?'

He looked up from his plate, glad to be rescued from his condemnation of silence.

His voice is soft and smooth, like good wine, yet still masculine. It was once seductive to me, though the words he speak seem jarring to me now.

'Alright, one last one. The strangest thing Ms. Reddy did,' he begins, animatedly now. The tension in between the laughs and silence has dissipated rapidly and comfortably, filled by his stories. Son of Irish immigrants, I mused, what is your story.

Where would you be on a map? Who do you pledge alliance to? His accent is brogue-less, no omission of 'h', no singsong lilt, just a straightforward colonially British voice. Did he? Yes please. Do you mind? It was the things he thought that upset me. He enjoyed playing the part of the exiled English lord, reluctantly pandering to the natives by descending upon them in a shower of white benevolence; he enjoyed it too much. The tilt of his lips betrayed him.

The way he asked, "Really, was I your favourite?" when of course, of course he was. He knew it but he asked anyway.

'Have you read Burgess?' he asked, looking at me. My heart could have burst, for the caresses I wanted to lavish upon him, the desire to know if he found me desirable, the wonder if I was pretty enough to be ravished by his Excellency the Immigrant. The 'expatriate' teacher.

I fixed my eyes upon his neck, wanting so badly to touch it, to feel his heart and pulse because I had always wanted to.

'Yes,' I said, 'I have.'

I have wanted to kiss you, Fintan Whelan, since I saw you when you made my heart stick to my chest. And you made me feel things a girl should feel for boys her age. I wanted to love you, to let me in to this inner sanctum of beautiful erasure of nativeness, of colour into a cool English accented space.

'I didn't like it,' I whispered, 'it was Orientalist.'

I hoped he was impressed but this turns him off, or at least away. A big word used for the wrong person, the wrong Time.

'It depends. How you take it you know? He thought the natives were- lazy, at least he was being truthful.'

He thought he saw it for what it was when he really had not the faintest idea. Suddenly, his eyes didn't look beautiful, nor did I want to caress his cheek, feel his chest, his back. He repelled me.

He left soon after and I didn't hug him. I wanted to, because it would have pleased the Old Me. Press against him, trail my fingers against his biceps, hips and kiss him deeply, taste his genteel teacher poverty.

Lie down on a bed, and turn off the light. Let him undress me. Touch the space between my legs, guide his hands towards my breasts, let him kiss them. Allow him to but I didn't want it anymore.

Fintan Whelan left and I let him go. He knew I wanted him once. As I knew that he knew I knew what he would do. Later I knew, he would lie down on his bed in the dimly lit hotel and sob, racking sobs shaking his frame. He would look at the empty space between him and the edge of the bed and become Lester. I didn't know if I was his Angela Hayes, hand moving slowly up my torso. He was scared of approaching the age of fatherhood where things would be expected of him, and he would have to think deeply if he wanted a wife or just girls enamoured by his whiteness, passing through. He knew that it would become harder for him; he is single now.  He would wonder if this would be permanent, and I wondered did he imagine my mouth on his, our bodies next to each other.

Did he wonder if I would kiss him back? Touch his chin, his torso. Wonder if-

"I love a man who puts in so much into hare-brained schemes. It's better if you're warm. I'm a people person, I really am."

Push his hands down my waist, the indentations, guide him to the place, touch him. Make love. Warmth his lips on my neck and he whispers

"Angela-"