Yiddelech, my Yeshivish love, I’ve admired you from across the board room table far too long; closely cropped jet hair like a man from the Roaring Twenties, pressed under the cotton of a tired baseball cap. Eyes so big and brown they reveal the awe of the most innocent cheder boy caught in the hurricane of lectures from the maniac mind of his schoolmaster.
Skin as white as ivory, barely able to sprout a beard, but soft and pure like freshly-fallen moonlight snow. A Roman nose contrasts the guise of Connecticut couture, cashmere sweaters, Ralph Lauren, khakis and well-worn top-siders. I wonder if you are truly yourself, caught somewhere in the juxtapositional realities of the shul and the Ivy League. I like how you hang over texts with the hunch of a seasoned Talmudist, delicate fingers tracing lines, feeling the raised ink of illuminated calligraphy from men long past, skin and bones consumed by the unfathomable void between time and space. And when you speak, your voice reminds me of the dichotomies purposed by Basho; a beautifully balanced contradiction, masculine and feminine.
The first time we met in your room was heaven, a stark space with just a bed and a desk, a haven for the mystical scholar. Two hours of small talk and silence broken by handholding; met by a twenty minute collision of hormones and flesh. To feel you kiss me like a virginal teenager on prom night, the awkward pursing of your tongue; the back of my head slammed against the shadow-cloaked wall; out the window, the twinkling twilight of suspension bridges, boats and headlights refracted against the sunset-stained glass of the Hudson. A train whistle moaned in the distance. And to feel you beneath me, to hear you gasp and murmur under the removal of cloth. Even when your lips and hands seemed to fumble, the nebbish apprehension, that was the greatest sensation of all. But perhaps I was wrong, when I asked for us to become one, you gently refused, and that’s when everything just seemed to fall apart.
I know you wish not to speak; I know you feel that I’m not the woman for you, the eternal shiksa, the blonde girl with baggage. But I often think of our brief rendezvous and pray that things were different.
- Female, 25, New York (NY)