She met M. in Prague.
M. is a maker, a maniac, a mansplainer at times.
But he is also nice and kind. He is smart and generous. He is sunburned.
He is an overachiever who believes to be an underperformer.
He is a walking contradiction - like we all are.
When they first met on a mild summer evening in Café Savoy, she noticed his wrinkles.
His laugh wrinkles.
He smiled a lot and laughed a lot and she loved how he laughed.
"Don't laugh at me", she would complain when she said something in her funky English and he would laugh about it.
"I'm just releasing tension", he would answer.
M. carries a lot of tension.
He wants to leave something behind once he dies. Something of lasting value for many. He owns houses. He owns land. He does a lot for others - but it never seems to be enough.
When they are philosophizing during dinner, she can barely eat. Their conversation nurtures her in a mind-over-matter way.
But M. can't stand to leave food on a plate, so he eats up the leftovers from her red beet carpaccio with goat cheese after he has devoured his boiled beef with bred dumplings.
And then, when they are making love all night, he is getting tired and she is getting hungry.
M. is a serious love-maker. He never laughs while making love. Then she notices his forehead wrinkles.
The first time M. invited her to his house he apologized for the wrinkles in the spotless white sheets on his bed.
"They are clean and fresh", he said. "Just a little wrinkled."
She loved his wrinkles.
All of them.
Photo: Canva
