Romantic Vanity

(The earliest painted self-portrait, 1493. Albrecht Dürer.)

I think about me then sometimes and wonder. So much distance, so much time. A strange cocktail of fragile ego made of equal parts of romance and macho heroic ideals. I wanted to be in the world. I wanted to be seen. I would pass by a reflective surface and quickly look to see if I was still there.

Sensual, I would say in opposition to sexual. And the ever-present longing.

We were all sitting at table on the beach of The Pier House in the afternoon. My friends had joined a pretty blonde who sat topless drinking a Pina Colada. I liked her right off but was shy. My friends were glib and sure and they talked their usual smart jib-jab that was sharp and quick, something I would never be capable of or aspire to but marveled at all the same. It was the dialog of ad men, of smart salesmen, the talk of executives in private clubs. It was sure and privileged and private.

A couple who were obviously tourists paying to stay at the hotel walked by, paper white, nervous and excited to be here out of the snow and cold routine. As they passed, the man couldn't take his eyes off the pretty girl's titties.

"What are you lookin' at," our new friend suddenly snapped at him. He turned away quickly, stung with embarrassment.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked, feeling an indignant outrage. "This fellow just got off the plane from Idaho. He doesn't see women sitting around without anything on sipping Pina Coladas on the beach. He never sees titties except at home. He looked. He couldn't help it. In two days, he'll be used to it and his wife's titties will be lobster red with sun. I don't know why you would do that."

She seemed to sober a bit. "You're right," she said. "You're right."

And as in all the movies I liked, we looked at one another and everyone disappeared.

God, she was pretty. She rode on the handlebars of my rented bicycle as I showed her the town. She leaned back into my chest, the tenderest thing I'd ever felt. As they say in all bad novels, I melted. She was just back from India, she said. She had gone to kick a heroin habit. She was coming off a bad breakup. We rode until dusk,then ate dinner. Later, we sat together on the seawall of Malory Square and talked under starlight. She had come with her sister and brother-in-law. They were staying in an RV in the gravel parking lot there. She would not stay in the camper that night. She smelled of lemon grass and hibiscus.

It was her last day on the island. They were leaving in the morning. She would write, she said, she would come and visit. I watched them drive away.

I sat on the beach of The Pier House enjoying a lovely melancholy. I had achieved that romantic heroism, I told myself without saying it. Unforgettable, mythical, transcendent. It was all true, all music and literature and art.

"Hello." And there she was, suitcase in hand, standing next to me on the beach.

"??????"

"I had them drop me off. I'm going to stay."

Oh god, oh god, my mind went in many directions. There she was, corporeal, temporal. . . REAL.

What can I tell you that won't look bad for me? Awkwardness led to resentment. She knew someone she could call, she said. We were in my room when he came, the three of us standing there as she changed. And then that naked beauty, that small tenderness, vulnerable. Her beauty was unquestionable. What mistake had I made, I thought standing there swollen, inflamed with passion and guilt.

Then they were gone. I was alone.

The rest of my stay was useless. I was haunted by her. I could feel her against my skin, could smell her, could hear her laugh. People had noticed us, I thought. We were memorable. That is what was left.

The man she had broken up with, she said, was Steven Speilberg's brother. It was a long time before I questioned that.