The Gentleman Diaries

You stand on the bridge as time edges closer to rendezvous. Some would be anxious, others nervous, the weak may even turn to leave, but you – no, you’re serene, measured, restrained. Twelve months have past since you last held her firmly in your arms, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at you, holding back the tears she was justified in shedding. Her hands on your neck, her forearms pressed tight to your chest. She didn’t want to leave. Unwilling to surrender that feeling of comfort; comfort that only you could provide.

Stoic, solid, tested. The bridge symbolises your essence. You draw back the khaki sleeve of your coat, your golden Tag catches the last ray of sunlight before it’s obstructed by cloud. 4pm. The rain has come early. Always prepared, you trigger your sleek black umbrella. The chrome handle, an extension of your firm grip. As the rain begins to pour, you remain unhurried -  Mother Nature, she is strong, powerful, unforgiving – yourself reflected.

It darkens quickly. Only the street lamps at either end of the bridge illuminate your position; providing a warm yellow glow to contrast the deepening grey as eve drapes its dark cloak. The park is quiet, only the sound of the rain filling the pond beneath you is amplified. It’s cold too, your breath visible, as it escapes your scarfed neck. Cashmere.

From behind you, a distant sound interrupts the serenity. Heals on cobblestone, racing to escape the downpour. You slowly turn, your large black canopy obscuring your body from view. As you lift your umbrella, your eyes meet her ivory-coloured stilettos and trace her silhouette upwards. Your fedora masks your face from her expectant gaze. Her coat has slipped down leaving her shoulders exposed, gleaming from a thousand rain drops. Your head angled slightly, the brim of you hat lifts above your raised collar to reveal one eye. She lunges forward in an embrace intensified over time and distance.

Her arm linked around yours, the click of your heal on the path as you gently promenade toward the restaurant. Velvet covered seats, crimson, overlook the river. Lit by a solitary candle, the maître d’ has prepared your usual table. Champagne, chilled, and waiting. He takes the coats; first hers, then yours. You let her sit before you do the same. Her skin glows golden in the candlelight; impossibly, she is more beautiful than you remembered.

Dinner, accompanied by fond memories. Talk of times past, Tuscany, Rome, Montreal, New York. She has missed you. You feel the same way, but your smooth stare is coloured with a touch of flippancy; enough to seem poised, yet not so much to be cold. In truth, these twelve months have seemed an eternity, but such admissions are best left hidden.

Le garçon gently places two dishes on the table. Not a word is spoken, only unfaltering eye contact. There is a soliloquy in this gaze.

After brandy by the log-fire, time approaches midnight. You feel it appropriate to escort your lady home. A car awaits as you assist her down the stone steps to the street. The driver, clad in charcoal with a black tie, opens the rear door, releasing the dulcet chords of Pachelbel playing within. You embrace once more. Her forehead pressed against your chest, you raise her chin. Her eyes plead for you not to let her go. But you must; reminded of wise words once written: “Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall”. A lesser man would fall. Only a gentleman triumphs.

Simon Moskva