Draft: The Gentleman

He is a gentleman of the best, most natural kind. He’ll hold the door open, fetch a fallen pen, carry things for you without you having to ask, and the most adorable part is that you know there is no conscious effort that goes into all of this: there is some part within him that is automated to be nice, programmed to be a savior. You’ll notice immediately his handsome face, a smirk that lifts on one side, and the other remains modest and restrained, while his eyes don’t pry into you: they linger on your face for a moment or two, register the memory, and don’t engage unless its necessary. And his arms they are a reliable and strong, with none of those awful, showy bulges that stretch the shirt, and the rest of his physique is the same, hardened thighs and large feet, all on some level titillating but more so functional to what a gentlemen needs.

And he’d never initiate a conversation, let you decide if you’re in a chatty mode, and even later there’d be no such interrogation: the dialogue lay safely in the middle, casual but impersonal. And he knows all the things you like, even if he doesn’t share your interests, he’d keep up with the shows you watch, the books you read, and share your remorse for all the things you realize are petty after. He’d make the perfect friend, you’d trust him as a confidante, seeing what an affable but socially intelligent person he is: but you’d want him to be more, and he’d be allowed into your home, such an intimate setting, and you’d feel secure enough to bring him into your bedroom. He made a so-so lover, but that was because you felt wrong: he always put your needs first, never minding the fact that his own pleasure was far below on his list of priorities.

And it would all go well, the way relationships normally do after settling past that one or two month period, when the romance stabilizes to a more realistic level, and the two of you begin thinking of more practical issues: once in a while the topic of marriage, and children do pop up, always insinuated by you in a subtle, joking manner, and you’d be surprised to find how agreeable he was. In so many ways, he would become the perfect companion, he’d anticipate your every worry and fill that space before you even thought of it, and when he failed, he was open and willing to talk things out. Never that awkward silence between couples often left to simmer for a time, so even when the problem is faced and solved later, that uncomfortable feeling lingers still.

And the day you’d find out he was doing all of this, a routine or setup you thought, with other girls, you’d be disappointed and wait before you approach him. Something in the logic was amiss, how could he invest so much of himself in so many women, able to divide his time and attention so well, that everything was compartmentalized so efficiently-if this was even the case-or if there was some other explanation for it. And you’d stop overthinking it, bring up the evidence and he’d first response with a face blank, innocent, and you’d hate to admit this: charming. And he’d tell you the story, whichever version he’d resort to, and all the things from the past few months or years would come to surface, for a while you were worn out by the detail, that a man could conjure some far-reaching thoughts about you, him and us, and them, and how this tied with the big picture: work, dreams, all the loopholes and missteps and things that conjured some featherweight, hopeful and warm feeling inside you.

You didn’t let this show of course, you’d listen and he’d listen and for a long time there may be a distance: and he’d leave you with so many questions in your mind, was it my fault and did I impose too much of my expectations and unrealized hopes onto this relationship, was it just too much for one man to shoulder? If the cheating was a symptom to something that lead back to you, or how you fit into his life, if you even thought of this in the first place, but a part of you pushed the need to be selfless and understanding, that if you pulled yourself out of the situation: it was plain as day, this man was unfaithful. But you recounted your own mistakes, that we were all human you would say, and in your own compromising and miserable way come to terms with what has happened, and welcome him back into your life.

But the thing was he was even more remorseful than you thought, he felt like he didn’t deserve to be with you, that it was a transgression that reflected some hidden, livid part of his personality that no one else should fall victim to. And you would negotiate. You’d tell him all the things you’ve done wrong, open up a part of you that was vulnerable and private, and suddenly found your will to forgive overpowering and persuasive, except it hadn’t touched him. You felt guilty and broken, and wanted all of this fixed, you’d even find a way to work around it you’d propose: an unofficial polygamy, if the other women fulfilled something that you couldn’t provide, maybe it didn’t have to be exclusive, and personally you thought this was a horrendous idea: but it was the bait he had to take, he would now see how far you were willing to go to have him back.

But he’d decline, and you had no words left. You felt all your options exhausted, and wondered what else you could do: and he’d leave, with a face naked with heartbreak walk slowly out, and you knew it was the last time you would see him. And the next year or so you’d still be in grief, curious to what had just happened: playing each scenario in your mind, forging alternatives, predicting if the outcome would have been different. And you’d remain wondering like that even after you got married to another man many years later, have your beautiful children and garden and whatever else you wanted: it was not something you could fully comprehend.

And what no one dared to tell you, was that this was a man who was born to do one thing: seduce. He was a gentleman of the best kind, but no part of him knew why he was doing all the things he did: there was only a desire to reap the rewards, and the method was something innate. He loved women all the same, with animalistic passion, for their terrific features: sometimes amazed by the fairness of a hand, the way sun glistened in such fine and wondrous hair, and the way they spoke so softly or animatedly and all the color and variety within the female breed: everything was enticing, and so he sought to become the gentleman you wanted. You could call yourself a casualty, an experiment, or all kinds of hideous and unbecoming names, but the thing is it wasn’t all that bad for you, only at the end was it rocky and the years after left you puzzled still, but the time before any of that erupted, was good. It was a fair trade, a balance of give and take, you’d think. And just when you reached this point of content, finally able to put this odd episode in your life behind, he’d appear. Now older, but still dashing, remotely different in a way that was easy for you to excuse.

The eyes, fiery but loving, still there, a voice now worn with age: and he’d tell you things, all in that artful way of his. And whether you’d succumb once more, despite all the things he had done to you, is a choice. Or, you would think it was.

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