Have You Seen Her Face

By Steve Schaefer

Middle-aged Solomon Weinstall meets an exotically attractive younger woman while grocery shopping and falls in love with her. She is tall, beautiful, and kind, but the feelings are not mutual. The impact of this event changes Solomon and leads him to examine his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626756304

Book preview

9781626756304

Chapter 1

When the beautiful woman turned and smiled at him, Solomon Weinstall knew he was in trouble.

He felt an explosion in his chest -- that aching, burning, giddy, ticklish feeling of falling in love.

But falling in love now? Here, at Safeway? At 54?

Yes, she did look sweet as she picked up a plastic bag of Granny Smith apples from the delicately constructed pyramid in the produce section. She must have been 5-foot-10. Solomon noticed the hair, thick, rolling down onto shoulders, her small ribcage, tidy waistline, swelling of hips, and then—bare legs. It was a hot August afternoon and she was wearing shorts. Sigh.

This goddess was filling her cart with fruit and vegetables. Solomon looked down into his cart and felt a little embarrassed to see the bacon, fruit pies, and case of strawberry soda there—his comfort foods. It was just as he was studying the way the shorts played against her leg that she turned around and warmed him with that smile. And those eyes, and that elongated, model-slim figure.

What was happening here? Maybe these emotions popped up when the universe sensed a vacuum. Lately, life with Frieda, his wife of 17 years, had grown comfortable and familiar. The sex, which had never been the central feature of the relationship, had slowly faded away after their son Christopher had been born. Frieda was one of the best preserved 47-year-olds he knew, and had a voluptuous, full figure, but his libido was on holiday in her presence.

As Solomon proceeded through his weekly shopping, he kept seeing the mysterious, beautiful stranger. At first he had thought she was a teenager, but on second and third view she looked more like 30. The slightly flattened face and subtly canted brown eyes made him guess that she was part Asian.

Normally when he came to shop, Solomon hoped that Violet, the young Cuban-American woman with the long dark hair and pretty face would be on duty so he could get in her line and check her out while she checked him out. Today, though, Violet was nowhere in sight, but the gorgeous stranger stepped up behind him in line.

Hi, I’m Mary Anne, she said when she noticed him staring directly into her eyes. You’re not looking to buy or sell property in the next six months, are you?

Solomon’s guts knotted as he heard her tender voice speaking the language of business.

How would that hair feel in his fingers, he wondered. He felt his feet planted on the supermarket linoleum and his head sailing into the air, stretching him like Mr. Fantastic.

Ah, not really, he answered, the words falling like apples tumbling out of a tearing grocery bag. We’ve had our house for three years now. We got it back when prices were lower. I sound like a dork, he thought.

But she simply smiled sweetly and said, Oh, that’s interesting. Solomon sensed a deep niceness and accommodation in Mary Anne. Was it half-Asian courtesy? He felt himself bring drawn to her like a homing device. If only he could think of something clever to make her laugh. But it was hard to be comfortable with her when he could feel his heart beating where his tonsils would be if they hadn’t been removed around the time of his second birthday.

The line was long, and despite his initial discomfort, he started to relax and it became easier to talk with Mary Anne. They discussed the recent Safeway remodeling. They talked about the changes in the real estate market. Everything became interesting if it related to Mary Anne in some way. What would normally have been an annoying, frustrating wait melted away into what felt like a minute.

Well, it’s nice to meet you, Solomon, purred Mary Anne. If you’re not busy on the 26th, I’m having a party at my house. Here’s my card. I hope you and your wife can make it.

Solomon took the business card in a half daze. It had her photo on it. Good! Something to remember her by, he thought. He knew that wife or not, he would be at that party. He packed up the car and drove home in an unfamiliar but exhilarated frame of mind.

Chapter 2

Solomon heard the crackle and mumble of his ancient clock radio from what seemed like a long way away. It was Wednesday, and time to head back to his job at the 50 States Insurance Company. Time to resume his daily toil, with a nice uninterrupted half hour of reading his favorite car magazines at lunchtime. Maybe that hot-looking Indian woman would be ordering a sandwich at the same time as he picked up his tuna and cheese on wheat at the company café.

Frieda was still snoring gently in her usual way. She claimed to have insomnia, but it seemed that he never saw her lying awake. It was one of her cute things, really, that tiny snore. It wasn’t that her nose was especially small, either, to produce such a delicate sound. He had lain there listening to the same tiny whistle for 19 years. It was as familiar as the drip of the sink in the master bath or the hum of the DVR.

As he stuck his feet into his Kermit the Frog slippers, Solomon noticed that he felt just slightly different today. Then he remembered last night’s shopping trip and Mary Anne and her shorts and their conversation and the party invitation and realized that his feelings for Mary Anne had not gone away. They had simply gone to sleep with him, and now they were awake again.

Solomon got the first slot in the bathroom—he was the only true morning person in the family anyway. He stretched gently and parted the drapes. Good—no clouds today. It read 5:38 on the digital clock on the cable box. That meant he’d be done by six and it would be Frieda’s turn under the water. Just like yesterday and last week and last month and last year. Up and at ‘em.

Solomon perused his face in the mirror. Yeah, hair still curly, but less on top, more gray. Nothing new there. Skin—still good, but a little parchmenty under the eyes.

Under the sprinkle of the Water Pik showerhead, Solomon noticed mold spots on the tile. Damn—better get rid of those. That’s what he said to himself every day. It was no fun cleaning bathrooms when he could be reading Motor Trend or, well, doing anything else. Then he remembered Mary Anne again. Hmmm. He had 20 minutes, he could…. No, he didn’t really feel like doing that. The burn was in his solar plexus, not lower down. It felt almost indecent to think of his new love that way—it cheapened her somehow. This was a noble love, not the common reaction he had to someone like Diane.

Diane was the redhead down the street for whom Solomon had no romantic feelings but a consistent lustful urge. Sometimes when he was out walking their French bulldog, Mitch, he saw Diane watering the flowers in her front yard and would stop for a chat. She was a talkative one, divorced with three kids to take care of and an overbearing and unreliable ex-husband. And she did go on about him sometimes, and Solomon thought she might be drinking a bit. But Diane had a fine set of long legs, ample breasts, and a casualness that made him wonder if she might like him a little. He imagined her naked body sometimes while she went on about something someone said to her at work that day.

This, though, was nothing new. Solomon always had someone to think about. What about Nancy at the stationery store downtown? He went in to buy a card ten years ago and noticed her ass and now found reasons to drop by in hopes that she would be there and have some reason to face away from him.

What about that gorgeous young blonde in the bookstore? That was almost twenty-five years ago, but he still remembered how he got so excited when he checked her out at lunchtime.

Solomon, finish up, it’s 5:57! hollered Frieda just outside the door. Nuts, he thought, I’ll have to skip shaving today to finish in time. He turned off the faucet, wiped the excess water off himself, grabbed his yellow towel from the rack, and rushed through the drying ritual. That meant rubbing his back side to side and then wearing the towel like Superman’s cape in an attempt to get his back completely dry. There was always a small patch somewhere that didn’t cooperate and he ended up with a wet spot on his undershirt.

As he poured his Grape Nuts into a bowl, images of Mary Anne popped back into his mind. His chest itched, tightened, ached, burned, then settled down. Good grief, this isn’t going away, Solomon noted to himself. Maybe a day at work will distract me enough to forget this, he hoped.

Or did he? Discomfort wasn’t the only sensation in this female-caused psychic ailment. This felt like his love for Dolores. Oh yeah, Dolores, the beautiful girl who sat next to him in his freshman Spanish class forty years ago. Dolores Churchill was a perfect blend, featuring the milky white skin and blue eyes of her Scandinavian father and the long, thick, black hair of her Navajo mother. Another mixed beauty, unique and exotic.

While Senor Green conjugated irregular verbs with the class, Solomon dreamed of what a kiss would feel like against those bicultural lips just inches away. He imagined her warm breath coming closer, how her hair would feel brushing against his face. He wanted her, but with an anxiousness that predicted doubt, disconnection, and isolation. After Spanish, the day lapsed into daydreams and regrets, questions of What do I say to her? and What would I do with her?

But the music comforted him when he lay on his blue blanketed bed in his little bedroom, bepostered and still. Solomon felt the deejays talking right to him, sang along with the Coke commercials, followed the passage of songs from hitbound to number one. Certain songs had the taste of Dolores—entire Beatles albums were dedicated to her, especially Rubber Soul and Yesterday and Today. Oh, he had to hide his love away.

Traffic was slow on the bridge today as Solomon made his way into 50 States Insurance. Wednesdays were always bad. Solomon’s personal theory held that Wednesday was the day that the drinkers had recovered from their weekends and the slackers hadn’t yet begun to slack. Bored, Solomon flipped on the classic oldies station and heard an unfamiliar song that he instantly loved. It had the jangly guitars and harmonies he enjoyed, but he had never heard this song before. The deejay back announced, And that was Have You Seen Her Face, by the Byrds. Ancient memories of Dolores and fresh ones of Mary Anne circulated Solomon’s mind and intertwined. At that moment, Mary Anne acquired her own theme song.

Solomon turned out to be right about work. The rigors of working through his overloaded inbox distracted him from thinking about Mary Anne all day. Solomon read his Car and Driver in peace over a baloney and cheese on French roll and Diet Dr Pepper. It wasn’t until he climbed back into his old gray Ford Focus to go home that thoughts of Mary Anne rolled back in, stronger than ever.

$16.98, said the pierced, careless teenage clerk. Solomon had decided he must have that song, so he was buying the Byrds’ Younger than Yesterday CD at Borders. In the car, Solomon fought his way through the plastic wrapping and tape seal and slipped the CD into the dash slot. In the slim CD booklet he found out that his new favorite song was from the spring of 1967—prime Dolores territory.

Dolores—As he drove home, Solomon remembered following her to school from a block or two behind, as she talked with her tall, red-haired friend. Dolores’ hair hung down over the back of her dark blue pea coat and bounced slightly as she walked. Her white shoes sparked below her knee-length skirt with the little red apples on it. During these mornings Solomon felt as if there was a headwind pushing him back. He felt that he would never be able to get within a block of his object of desire.

In biology class, Dolores sat one row over, but a few seats back. Solomon would turn sometimes and look at her, following her hip down to where it swelled out near the seat. Why was it so hard to talk to her?

Ah, Dolores. He started walking by her house in a blue felt fedora with his name on it that his dad had brought him from a business trip. Sometimes he would hang upside down on the parallel bars at the elementary school and wish he was inside Dolores’ house with her. And what about the time Dolores’ sister came out and asked him why he was walking back and forth in front of their house? That was devastating.

That night, Solomon decided to do something he had never done before. After thinking about his helplessness at age 14 with Dolores, he decided to send Mary Anne a short email expressing his admiration. He’d admit he was married and say he wasn’t asking for a date. He just had to express himself or he’d go crazy. He had her email address from the business card she had handed him in line at the supermarket.

He crafted his note. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, it began. It ended with, If I’ve overstepped the bounds of propriety, please let me know.

Solomon read and reread his electronic love note and then, with sudden impulsive resolution, pressed Enter.

Immediately the worrying began. What if she gets angry with me? Is it stalking to send someone an email? Solomon began to question the wisdom of sending such a suggestive missive.

What arrived back in his emailbox the following afternoon surprised and relieved him. Three lines begin with this sentence: Solomon, you’re such a sweetheart and really made my day!, she said. Let’s keep in touch for sure, she said. See you at the party." Oh my god. Solomon’s lips broke into an unbelieving smile.

The 16 days until the party included nothing remarkable. Work was exactly the same. Sometimes, when Solomon drove the old Ford back and forth from his suburb to the 50 States corporate office, he would sense Mary Anne somewhere in the region of his solar plexus and put on Younger than Yesterday again to track 2 – her song. He wasn’t sure if the soothing effects were so pleasing because of the imprint of Dolores onto his new love or whether it was just music as salve, as always.

Chapter 3

Hooray! It was Mary Anne party day, and it dawned typically. Being Saturday, Solomon stayed abed longer than he could on the weekday. That meant his eyes popped open at around 7:15 and he lay around until about 8 a.m., when his guilt about the dog needing to pee got him up.

For some reason, Solomon always thought Saturday morning would be a great time for a little intimacy with Frieda, but it never seemed to happen. For one thing, she didn’t appear to be interested, and often discussed the condition of her sinuses or lower back. Or, it might be a charley horse in her toe. From his side, he just didn’t feel any particular driving passion, even if he found his hands on her warm, soft midsection.

What do other guys feel, he wondered. If half the pop songs were about baby I need your lovin or can’t get enough of your lovin’ or hold you through the night, what were they talking about? Was it like hunger, where you hadn’t eaten since last night’s dinner and felt a biological need for food? Was it obsession, like the way he felt about finding next year’s license plate sticker in December or discovering the next state quarter in his coffee change?

Solomon knew that feeling of urgency, but so much of his turn-on was visual and impersonal. It wasn’t him doing anything, but the image of it being done, or sometimes, just the image itself. His well-thumbed magazine in the middle drawer of the dresser attested to that. Overly endowed guys, obviously stimulated, entering delicate little Asian women. The excitement was always reliable and quick—sort of a fast food love affair, resulting in neither real satisfaction nor true nutrition. Solomon had pitched his entire collection of materials a couple of years ago, hoping that the pent-up lust would reflect itself in activity with Frieda, but after months and months of proof to the contrary, he drove out one night and found the windowless naughty goods store where he could obtain some good old fashioned porn.

So, up and out of bed. Pee and feed the dog. Munch a bunch of Grape Nuts.

Frieda doesn’t like social activities—she’s too burnt out—so Solomon planned to attend Mary Anne’s party stag. Considering his feelings for the hostess, this would be better, he told himself. His normal