The night was mine. Fresh buds, bound like little green roses with tightly wrapped petals, sent the last of falls’ leaves tumbling to the ground. Parents and their children, pairs of friends, and couples new and old held hands as they circled Lake of the Isles. I grasped my solitude tightly, and then less so, as I realized this was my night, alone.
Last night I’d spent in someone’s caress, in hands and eyes not my own. And this is how my life has been—an introvert but never alone. But now I am with a camera and as my fingers turn the focus, I try to find a scope of my own. On the waters of the lake, I picture his appraising brow and I wonder about myself too.
It must make me a peculiar woman to feel the contradiction in a man’s grasp, to feel the ill-fated future in the immediacy of his touch. All of these men find it odd that I respond rather aloofly to compliments but I find these reminders of my commonality. Thus, I find their praise to be reminders that I may be replaced.
So it is with beauty especially. Do not detest the women who believe it gives them power; pity them. Beauty cannot be possessed; it possesses you. The more people believe in the power of your beauty, the more powerless you become. As I capture the elegance of new life in pictures, I realize that people must feel entitled to beauty, as I do.
I could never understand it as a young girl, even as it played out before me. The boys would drop a mirror on the ground and hold their gaze upon it as it grazed the floor. Wry smiles turned to laughter as they glanced up her skirt. Yes, boys do play. But perhaps the true problem is that they never stopped toying with her.
As the girl grows into a woman, boyish disregard becomes men’s outright disrespect. Men look at her sexually, admiringly. Strangely enough, she may not even realize they consider her to be beautiful. Their appraising stares invoke self-consciousness. Entitled slaps and tugs convey their lack of regard for her worth.
But these forthcoming fellows are not the worst of men. As someone bluntly stated about me, “men don’t want to date you; they want to f*** you.” There are men who pretend that they see you for more than your looks. They seek the challenge of receiving your permission to bask in beauty though it is given as a result of their guise.
Even when a man’s fingers are momentarily intwined with mine, I cannot help but feel unease from the desire that tinges his sidelong glances. So even though I am alone tonight amidst scores of companions, I feel at rest, at peace. My constant doubt of the men I am with is dizzying when paired with the faith I also place in them.
I understand the powerlessness of my position. There is certainly a strange pleasure in being admired like the springtime blossoms but I, as they are, am a fleeting little thing. Delicate and disposable. A beautiful sight among millions of gorgeous scenes. I am a sovereign identity whose fate is determined by the commonwealth of Beauty; alone, I am an object of desire.
