He treated women as he did words: He played with them. There was no malice in his game, only wonder for the way they made him feel. Choosing the right one was an art for him, an art form. But they all caught his eye, the same way a rainbow did, or road-kill. He would stop what he was doing or where he was going and stare—expressionless until noticed then he would react with a grimace. Often a smile, but not always. Nor was he always noticed which provoked another grimace. Often not a smile, but sometimes. The ones he chose to play his game with enjoyed it and him tremendously at first, and then not at all. The ones who chose him never enjoyed it at all. There is no such thing as a serious game, he would think at one point, nor a genuine smile, and at that point his smile would disappear and then so would he, and left behind would only be the thought until that too would vanish in due time. But then again, there was always a different woman who would bring about the same smile, the same game—always and again. He treated women the same way he treated words, but did not notice this until later in life, late in life, when he found himself at a loss for both. And this in the end made him smile more than ever before, more than any happily ever after. He died a happy man.
With A Smile On His Face | Christopher Troy ©
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