Frank closed his eyes. He pictured Nicole. He wanted to get closer, to smell her mouth, to draw his tongue across her teeth and run his fingers through her hair. He could only imagine how she might smell, but however she smelled, he didn’t care. He only knew that she would be fresh to him. It was long ago that he felt comfortable with his mouth. No matter how often he brushed his teeth, he could taste the thousands of meals he had eaten. Age gave him a sense of his own uncleanliness. Nicole smiled at him, but he knew it wasn’t for him, it was just a picture. She was smiling for someone, a girlfriend, a lover, her parents, but not the fifty four-year-old.
Frank was bald, physically in shape because he rode his bike up Mt. Diablo. Not as often as he liked, but probably more often than he would if he were younger. There were days in his youth when he surfed in the sun for over six hours. Perhaps he was buffer then. Besides the biking, he would do about five pull-ups with his separated shoulder, torn rotator cuff, and tennis elbow, and usually around twenty five push-ups and fifty crunches. These greatly tired him and each morning of the following day he could barely get out of bed. His right hip ached. It wasn’t appendicitis, his doctor told him. It was probably muscular, but then the doctor ran a CT scan and found it was diverticulitis.
Frank closed his laptop and wondered where Nicole was and what she was thinking. Did she have the same needs? Of course she did. She got them met by her boyfriend and maybe she was even partially interested in other boys, but to her Frank was a distraction, perhaps a mistake.