His neck gave him away, the odd bit of extra skin extending diagonally from under his chin, the bare beginning of a categorizing wattle. It belied the firm jawline, smooth cheeks, and hardly-at-all-lined forehead. His bountiful hair, swept back, showed no signs of grey, white, or unnatural coloring and his beard only a whisper. But I heard the whisper: I’m not as young as you think I am.
And what I did think. 45? When he told me 59, I said, as everyone must, “You don’t look 59!” And he didn’t so it was the truth, not just a compliment.
Omar seemed to take this as his due, smiling graciously—one might say magnanimously. He asked me to have a Turkish coffee with him and, although Turkish coffee is too sludgy for me, I drank two demitasse cupsful without a murmur. They served as the entrance fee to his bed, which was worth paying. His well-toned, well-tanned body took control. We had our moment.
Fortunately, there would be more moments, a lifetime of moments. He still doesn’t look his age.