How would old man Terry react if his partner dared to tease him? Say they're younger and they lovingly make fun of his outdated outfits and earring in old pictures from the eighties they see of him?
If only the me of then knew how loved he is now.
That's the first thought that crosses Terry's mind as he carefully observes your parted lips place a small kiss on the surface of the old photograph held between your fingers, slow enough as if not to leave a trace of hot breath, accidental saliva or the gentle, soft imprint of your mouth on the polaroid (not that he'd ever mind your marking there --- quite the opposite, he desires it), your lashes fluttering up, revealing a pair of fixated eyes meeting his own.
He's whipped out an old album.
Photos ranging anywhere from the early 70's and 80's.
All throughout the 90's, verging into present day.
Bits and pieces of the him you never met.
The him he wishes you knew.
Out of the bunch, you have a godawfully saccharine statement for each. Nice words. Kind comments. Complements. Remarking how fashionable he was. How statuesque. Imposing. Gorgeous. Dashing. Perpetually well-dressed, no matter the time period and the trends of the decade, or rather, decades you weren't even born in. How he was lovely to look at. How he was still all of those things now. Even as he holds back from rolling his eyes at some of the endearments, Terry's heart flutters in his chest, hide it as he may. He feels like a stiffened schoolgirl on a first date and it is, technically, quite a ridiculous sensation. He should be too old for this shit by now. He thought himself too dyed in the bone and too much of a self-proclaimed, rehabilitated realist by now to get butterflies in the gut --- yet, regardless, there is a sense of feeling good when you say encouraging things about him. Not that he needs any encouragement or positive reinforcement. There's something to it, though; one's past not being up for ridicule. The safety of that. The acceptance that has him quietly unhinged, like a feral animal desiring a pat and the needy, beguilingly bewildering, strange warmth of it. He could show you anything, he figures, and it would be accepted with sweetness. He wants more, he finds. More complements out of you. More praise. More flattery. He doesn't need it --- he knows, for lack of a better word, that he's hot shit, but he wants it. Wants your adoration. Craves it.
No less so when you reach a picture from 1985.
Terry's memory is stellar even now and he has recollection of it.
He remembers it like it was yesterday; beige blazer, crimson silk ascot.
He still had a penchant for diamond studded earrings back in those days.
Back when it was the very height of fashion, some odd thirty years ago.
-"Who's the handsomeness?"- You remark, with a precious chuckle.
-"You should introduce us."- You add, humorously, joking gently.
He can't help but smile at your teasing, dreamy stare as he reaches up to place his hand over your cheek, holding it there, feeling the heat of your blood searing beneath the palm of his hand. She loves you. She loves every part of you, old man. Past. Present. Future. His subconcience whispers, voices intermingled with the mellow cracking of the fireplace illuminating the seating lounge where you're sitting together, reminiscing over all the long years of his life. All the years you haven't been a part of. What a motherfucking tragedy that was. Shakespeare would've wrote about something like that, five centuries ago. Two lovers --- soulmates --- meant to be together, separated only by time and timing; one finding the other too late, the other, too early. They both spent too many hours on the wrong people. Hours that could've been far better spent on each other. Terry decides to never forgive those hours wasted on anyone who wasn't you. You could've been mine then and now, if only you were born sooner, or maybe, if I was born later. Maybe, if I knew where to find you, so I could collect you for myself on time and give the world a big fuck you. Terry muses internally, pondering on how he could've gotten in control of himself and all events and all possible outcomes, figuring, how even if he'd shown you a picture of his army days, you'd no doubt be charmed with that wimp. Complement his lanky, thin arms and curls and baby face or whatever bullshit. Why does part of him want you to?
-"Do you think he'd like me? The dashing earring wearing angel? I want it in my mouth."-
You prod, winking, flirting with him, holding the 80's polaroid, in slightly muted, faded colors with an odd flare to it compared to modern, more standardized, high-res pictures. Would the him of thirty years back like you? Like you!? Were you messing with him right now!? -"He'd love you. Adore you."- Terry barely waits for you to finish, impatience burning, grim in his delivery, nearly cutting you off as he says it, facing you directly, eye to eye, unable to look away as you plant a small smooch to this piece of his memories too, in an act of pure worship. You've been over an odd hundred pieces with him by now and you kissed each and every one, an odd eroticism to it. In theory, possibly the most non-erotic thing he could imagine, having done everything in the line-up of sexual exploits a man could possibly do in one long lifetime, but he never imagined watching a beautiful somebody that he loved love his past so acutely would virtually turn him on on the spot, like worlds colliding, each time your lip touches a remnant of the past, in a bizarre way, Terry, now an old man, hopes, that if a theoretical multiverse exists, that the him of the past feels the care you put out towards him, through some ripple in the fabric of space, here and now, enjoying the peaceful flame of the fireplace.
He knows how loved he is.
Terry concludes, once you reach an old picture.
Really old by now, nearly fifty years in the past --- how insane that felt.
Dated 1969, a simple military snap and there he is, the malnourished, skinny creature he used to be --- and your expression softens, like someone meeting an old friend or a family member. Dedicating a kiss to Twig too, as Terry feels his fingers curl into fists on his knees. He is loved. He thinks. And he has so seldom truly been loved by anyone. But, now, he is loved. You smooched a photo of his eighteen year old self. Cradling the memory between two palms like a treasured, fragile something, giggling at him. All Terry can continue doing is stare at you, unsure if he's ever felt a silent happiness greater then this in over six decades of being alive. To be seen and known and embraced for it.
