Recently it occurred to me that in the past, when I have fallen in love with young men, I have actually fallen in love with their potential. Hence, I have fallen in love with what I project onto them. This can never be lived up to of course, and inevitably, I am disappointed.
ML has just offered a story of falling in love with a very very old man - a man whose eyelids are "so ancient they are translucent and veined and dusty. His gait is lopped and slow like a sloth. His voice almost a wisp". But she sees the young man within him flitting in and out, and wants to go home with him to his apartment in the butte chaumont, where it is very agréable.
When you are young, your age is a thought, sometimes held in fear, sometimes awaited for with taut anticipation and excitement.
When you are older, your youth lives within you - held by the fine lines in the skin, shining out of your, maybe rheumy, eyes.
Nothing is lost, unless you want to lose it.