Island of Women

I look at them beyond the cover of my glasses. Each of them is more beautiful than the next. One is a brunette, the other one Hispanic. The third seems jaded by time and yet has something about her that draws my attention. They sit so close to one another and yet do not interact. Each woman is an island. Each is hoping to be rescued by some undeserving man.

When it comes to women, especially those living in New York City, it is virtually impossible to estimate their age. Most wear too much makeup. They hide behind colors and shades from magazines of fashion. We all hide from our own reflections. We all try to project a much improved version of our insecure selves. This city is rough on us all, but more so when it comes to its female residents. In this town, us men have the upper hand whether it is well deserved or not. Here in the city, it is all about demographics and we take full advantage of the fact that there are enough single women in this town to feed a herd and leave the scraps to other scavenger types.

In this city, good girls finish last. Virtuous women with good morals and values are a rare commodity around these parts. Yes, we all claim to look for them but who would wait in a two week line when you can effortlessly get the cookie on your first attempt. Back in the day, before I first moved here, I still waited for it to happen to me. I thought I would fall in love. But the very concept of love, in its television version by now seems childish to a man who tasted every dish in this putrid buffet.

I once met a girl named Lina but that is a story I would rather not discuss.
Lina was one of those sweet girls. The key emphasis should be placed on the past tense of the verb “to be”. Lina was a sweet girl. Now she is another woman broken down by New York City. Who should be blamed for the transformation? It really is no one person’s fault. Everyone in this town is a victim of its own circumstances. None are to fully take the blame.

And Guy, that guy, that son of a bitch, he broke her heart. Lina was, is and always will be pure of heart but no longer in that same manner that she was when they first met down by the Chelsea piers. To be honest, she was just minding her own business. She never had any intention of meeting a strange man, nonetheless, a no good author whose live revolved around his own narcissism, alcoholism and many other isms that all together amounted to a familiar literary cliché.

But his eyes were blue, almost overpowering. His uncomplicated smile falsely advertised that she could simply close her eyes and follow his path regardless of where it went. He was selling autographed books for $9.99 and wore a bowler hat that she saw on television shows way before she left her hometown of Lancaster, Ohio.
She had never met a writer before. Any man of played with words must have something interesting to say was what she assumed. And she was not wrong about that. But she was wrong about the rest. At first he told her everything that a woman wanted to hear. He told her that she was beautiful, that it felt like destiny, like it was all meant to be.

Women grow up on Cinderella tales of white weddings and ever- lasting love. Those who sold Valentine’s Day greeting cards and red balloons forgot to mention that in this life things do not always work out the way according to our wishes.
Nearly a year later, I still think about Lina and about everything that went wrong. I am not one for religion or other matters of superstition. But I have no doubt that a special wing of hell is reserved especially in my honor for what I did to that poor girl.

Many women came and went since Lina. They all now seem like a guilty blur.
But Lina was a good girl and good girls are hard to find around these parts.
In this island of women, in this life of a man, you cannot take back what you have done.

You can only look forward to for another opportunity.

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