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Alfie’s in the middle of a full-blown rant about homework – I’m not really listening, concentrating on making breakfast – but just like his father, it doesn’t stop him. English A-level, essays, load of pretentious crap; heard it all before, I have. And then I tune in,
“- virile gamekeeper Oliver Mellors,” he says, “and what the fuck does virile mean?”
“Manly,” you drawl, and predictably, he’s off,
“Manly, what does manly mean? It’s so – stifling, old-fashioned – so misogynistic – “ and I know you, I know what you think of the tumblr-generation, of trans, of gender-queer, of all the words they use, and I know too what you’re about to say.
“Manly, virile, able to – “ give a pair of lesbians enough spunk for a baby with one wank, I can hear the end of the sentence, but I’ve had practice, so many years of cutting in, stopping you,
“Oh my god,” I say, “Blimey, Stuart, I remember you studying Lady Chatterley at college – remember you sounding off exactly the same – virile gamekeeper – what’s so bloody virile about running around with sodding flowers – chip off the old block, aren’t you Alfie?”
He glares, and you laugh silently.
But I’m remembering you at nineteen, twenty, whatever it was, remembering listening to you. Remembering looking at you, always watching you, I’ve spent years watching you.
“Go on, then, superannuated-shop-boy,” you say, vicious now, “tell us, what’s virile?”
“Not too tall,” I say, pouring them both more coffee, “strong, but not muscle-bound, good-looking goes without saying. Gorgeous dark hair for choice, nice eyes, sex-appeal. Clever, funny, rich I suppose – doesn’t hurt anyway,” bacon onto the bread, top slices on, cut in half, “good in bed – or out of it. Can pull anyone he likes, any place, any time. Tough, takes no shit from anyone.”
Put the plates down, one for each of them, one for me, turn back for my coffee.
Alfie grunts, nearest he’ll get to a thank you – and between mouthfuls continues complaining.
You eat, silent and fast, well-aware I just described you.
Then you stand, licking your fingers clean.
“Nah,” you say, “too simple, as always. Virile – manly – someone strong, strong enough to wait, to see who they want and hold out until they get him. Someone who’s always got time, energy for his friends, looks after his mum, looks after his best mate even when he doesn’t deserve it. Someone – someone who wouldn’t let his mate walk out on his kid, nags him to remember, to make the effort, to be a good father. That’s a real man.”
You hold my eyes with yours, and give me that half-smile.
You don’t say any more.
You don’t need to.
You turn, and slink away, your hips moving smooth as sin, still perfect in my eyes, still making my breath catch with want – even after the night just gone, when you proved again and again that not all men nearing fifty are past their prime.
And if you were – you’d still be more than good enough for me.