Jeff Spencer

Miscellaneous ruminations on the fairer sex

Writ 2-7-94, London



BOOTED OUT OF EDEN AGAIN

Ah, here she comes: The Queen of Tragedy, the Lady of Shalott, Ophelia incarnate. To look at that sweet, innocent, betrayed face one would believe herein lies the repository of the sorrows of the world: Woman Used, Woman Despoiled, Woman in Distress. What a canny slag. What a routine. I fell for it a thousand times. I would fall for it again and again. What perfection.

Across the smoky bar (Some enchanted evening/When you find your true love/Whenyou feel her call you/Across a crowded room), I saw her against the wall. Little Tragedy. That sweet, sweet face—the face of a little girl lost, not of a woman of 38 and a half. Yes, I knew that look. It was her hunting face: Look at me, man I love!, look into my eyes, and see the love I have for you! Look! Look! Look! My emotional elevator snapped its cable and dropped into the basement with terrible execution to all aboard. Those oh so soulful eyes were aimed at some rustic musician on the stage, not at me. I hadn’t seen that look aimed at me in 17 years or more. But I knew it.

Hell, I would have given my life---three times---to have seen that look aimed at me again. She is a professional lover, sans pareil. Nobody in skirts can match her. What a schtick.