A Difference of Age

 

04-13-80

 

 Sometimes you can't help but hurting some one, just by saying no, turning away, knowing that behind you a wounded 18-year-old stares at your back.

 Sitting across from Sue Merchant in the cafeteria my hand warm around a Styrofoam cup, the swell of her breast showing at the top of her shirt, her thin fingers inches from mine on the table, she talking about writing, but meaning something else, me trying to talk about anything else.

 "I've heard terrible things about you," I want to say, although I don't know her well enough to say so, her eyes slightly manic, slightly admiring.

 "Do you want to do something with me later?" she asks. "Later in the week I mean."

 For Christ's sake, I'm thinking, I can't do anything with a girl like this, me nearly 29 and horny all the time, me thinking that I hadn't come to college to take advantage of young women. I could have done as much with the rock band and didn't.

 "Do you know how old I am?" I ask.

 She shrugs. "No," she says. "Does it matter?"

 "I'm twenty-nine."

 Her blue eyes open a little wider, she clearly surprised. "Really?"

 "Really."

 "So can we still do something?" she asks.

 "I don't think so," I say, glancing up at the clock near the door. "I'm late for class."

 "I'll walk you."

 "No, don't," I say, shaking a little as I walk away, stiff in my retreat out into the student center, and then out into the still cool air, her sharp gaze on my back for part of the time, one more little girl interested in more than writing.