The first thing Clara Jean Mae notices about him is his beard. It's well groomed without a single hair displaced or patch of thinning. The edges accentuate the curves of a sculpted jaw. She muses that the beard was undoubtedly invented specifically for this man.
Then, she notices his hulking shoulders. His navy collared shirt is tailored to illuminate the soft sloping muscles adorning his torso. The sleeves rolled at the forearms which display the subtle breaks in muscle tone and the details black images. He defies the male-gaze. His soft stomach meets his full, understated, chest.
His legs are long, thick, defined tree trunks. Even his black dress pants can't disguise the sumptuous definition. Eyes instinctively linger on his backside for a little too long.
Clara Jean blushes as she paints his unparalleled body into the contours of her mind. Once completed, she hangs it in the hallway of her memory--forever singeing her first glance. She was hopelessly attracted to his undeniably smoldering presence. The slight wrinkle at the corner of his eyes called to her sense of naughtiness and ignited a consuming burn. He was an indelicate delicacy. Clara Jean powerlessly succumbed to her indecent desires, biting her lip while caressing the adonis with her gaze.
He would solely live in her dreams. She knew he was too old; he likely craved the seriousness of an older and equally refined woman. Clara Jean was ashamed of her childish appearance and maturity. She had turned twenty yesterday, but she was utterly dependent upon her parents. Not to mention she was inept at everything in her life.
In all her courses, she struggled to maintain passing grades and couldn't focus long enough to get through a whole lecture. She wasn't cut out for academics. She was stuck in a gridlock; if she didn't attend university her parents would disown her and society would call her another burn out. Clara Jean didn't want to major in Journalism; she wanted to cook and become the owner and head chef at a five-star restaurant. She craved the joy lighting people's faces when they indulged in her foods.
Despite her will, she sat here studying until she could feel her hands shaking and eyes welling with tears. She was so frustrated by her lack of control, but she couldn't quite communicate this. Instead, she cried because her essay was muddled and didn't properly answer the prompt. No aspect of life was hers. Her parents--who cherished their only daughter deeply--micromanaged all aspects of her life. The liberty of walking home, driving—despite having her license since she was 18—and most importantly her career choice. Her parents were successful journalists who believed cooking was a cute hobby, not a real job.
She didn't bend to their will easily, but after years of begging and crying her will did not overpower them. She knew they wanted what was best for her and meant no harm. Still, Clara Jean silently resented them for forcing her down a path she was ill-equipped for. She was constantly crying: before classes and in this stupid café that served mediocre coffee. She was trying so hard to accept her fate, but she couldn't disguise her emotional turmoil inside.
She reoriented her mind to the present because thinking about her studies would only cause trouble. She would rather enjoy the present specimen. He ordered a cold brew coffee with caramel and creamer, with extra sugar of course. Clara Jean giggled to herself at their identical orders. At least someone had taste, she mused, since everyone else seemed to lack taste buds these days.
Clara Jean shook her head, trying to take her glee and apply it to the book before her. She was reading Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. It was an adventurous novel that Clara Jean knew--if she was reading it separate from her literature class-- she would love. This was not the circumstance and each page was agonizing. She annotated the life out of her book, but still struggled to understand the theme. She reads ten lines over and over again, allowing herself to gaze at the painting of the very refined gentle man in her memory.
"When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?"
Clara Jean jumps in her seat and manages to knock her coffee into her lap. She whimpers, stressed by the chill and stain on her new dress. Tears build and she powerlessly stares at the coffee seeping to her skin. Her chilled body trembles and raises her eyes to the murderer of her newest dress.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to give you such a fright!" An smooth voice meets her ears before her eyes meet the culprit. She gasped, the adonis she admired just moments ago sitting across from her. Normally, Clara would be scared if a stranger sat in her booth, but something about the man put her at ease.
"I-I-It's okay," Clara Jean sniffles, wiping at the tears that are beginning to fall. The man frowns and moves to pick her up before he realizes where he is.
"Hey, don't cry, it's okay...If you want I can pay for a new one? How does that sound?" He gently cooed to her ear. She felt an instinct to curl into his outstretched arm. His gaze was disengaging and it called to a fond sense of security. His presence alone swore a devoted essence of safety in her. He approached her and hesitates. One moment--a blink and exhale. He slowly opens his hand: "Can I help you clean your dress?"
Clara Jean sniffles and nods timidly. She grasps his palm and feels his warm hand envelop hers. He opened the bathroom door for her and turned on the hot water knob. He hands her a wet and warm paper towel. Tears trail down her cheeks and she doesn't know why. She doesn't mind that her dress has been ruined, but she can't control her instinct to display such vulnerability. "No more tears, okay?" She nods timidly, wiping her tears with the warm towel.
"Is it okay if I lift you onto the counter? That way I can clean your dress better?"
She allows him to. His hands scorch her icy skin; the sensation of his large and calloused fingertips silences her loud mind. Her mind is buzzing with the joy of being taken care of.
"Can I wipe your arms?" He holds the rag out to her. As he cleans her arms, she focused on his hands. Each digit is twice the width and length of hers and his wrists could be the size of her ankles. Once he's done, he hands her a new and warm rag. "Alright, I'm going to leave wiping your legs to you."
He escaped the bathroom and she mourned the fullness of his presence. She meets him outside, he inspects the wet spots of her white dress. "I'm really sorry for scaring you; I read Don Quixote recently and I thought that'd it be a good way to.....er," he pauses as blush coats his cheeks "talk to... you."
Now it's Clara Jeans chance to blush. "M-Me?" Her thumb childishly points toward herself and he smiles. Clara notes a subtle dimple on his right cheek and his white, slightly crooked teeth.
"Yes, you. I didn't mean to ruin your pretty dress. I don't know, I thought that—uh—y'know it would get a conversation going... not lead to this whole catastrophe," his ramble makes Clara Jean giggle as more blush coats both their cheeks.
"I am truly sorry about your dress; can I pay you back?"
Clara Jean's eyes twinkle with mirth as she shakes her head no. "Tha-that's okay. I can always get another one. Besides, if I weren't so dang clumsy this wouldn't have happened in the first place."
His eyes harden slightly. "That was not your fault. Can I least buy you new one? Maybe take you to look for one you think is most suitable as a replacement?" His voice, though gentle, has a certain tone of dominance. It's so subtle that to the untrained ear he sounds soft spoken, but Clara immediately picks up on and feels the coziness that he provided earlier.
"I-I-I—" she halts to find good words and scrunches her face nervously—"I would like that, yes. When would you like to go?" Clara plays with the end of her hair and looks up at him through her eyelashes.
He almost outwardly cooed at the sight of this adorable cherub staring at him through a curtain of hair with nervous and expectant eyes. "How does this Friday at 6:30 work? We can exchange numbers and meet here if you'd like?"
Clara Jean smiles at him and nods excitedly. "Okay—" she pauses for his name.
"Elijah Micheals, and you are?"
"Clara Jean Mae, but my fiends call me Jean."
Elijah instantly repulses at the idea of being this angels friend. He wanted more, he wanted something deeper with her. He wanted to be hers, to be her boyfriend, fiancé, and husband. He wanted Clara Jean to be his everything. Clara Jean was no friend to Elijah and he was going to make that clear.
"Well, since all your friends call you Jean I'll call you baby."
YOU ARE READING
The Older Man
Romance"So fucking tiny," his rough skin touches the smoothness of her wrist. She blushes at his thoughtful gaze and wonders how she even got into the predicament she's in. He was an older man, so old she had to sneak around to see him. He was calloused an...
