For the TWOP ficathon Cocktail Challenge: Champagne
(Yes, I know it's not a cocktail. Thanks for the leeway.)
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Girl talk and feeling the champagne....
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They sat together, each a glass in hand, quietly in the gazebo.
It was late and they hadn't been able to have many words, so busy had the evening been.
But they were taking the time now....
"Oh my darling, if there is one thing I could teach you, one thing I could tell you, it is that men are who they are," she said quite kindly, and then added, "Have another glass of champagne."
The younger woman obliged the elder and dipped her glass into the bubbling champagne fountain and took a deep sip. How many glasses had she had so far? she wondered. Oh well, tonight was a special night.
"Oh, when we are young I suppose there is a chance, for a man to change that is, for a woman to maybe facilitate that," she mused further as her listener sat uncharacteristically silent, drinking it all in. (Hee. Word play.) She took another sip and smiled quietly. "But only the strongest of characters, those most proficient at communication and, well, teaching, for lack of a better word, are able to accomplish the molding of a man."
"But, I don't want to mold anyone," the younger woman finally spoke up.
"Yes, well, that is where you are unique, or believe you are," smiled the woman of experience, as she dipped her own glass into the fountain again. "Most women assume that men will change. Hope that they will. Believe that they project a certain gruff exterior to disguise a very tender interior—So tender is this interior, most women imagine, that it could only be something cooked up out of fiction (the sort usually written by women, of course)" she added with a laugh.
"So men aren't tender on the inside?" asked the younger woman slyly.
The older woman shrugged indifferently, "Perhaps. Some. Perhaps. But, as I said, most are who they are. It is not at all likely that they will change. It is not likely that women will change either, so why should we expect that men, poor misguided creatures that they are, should do any better?"
It was the younger woman's turn to shrug into her sip now.
"For instance," went on the worldly sage, "If a man says he doesn't want children, it is wise to believe him."
"I would," her companion agreed.
"You see, such a statement has nothing to do with sex. Something like this is said as a truth because it is not designed to lure a woman into bed. And, in general, it is not said just to avoid commitment. These are the instances where men tend to lie."
"Okay." Couldn't really dispute that.
"But, alas, women do not want to believe this. They delude themselves. They believe that men will change. It has been my experience that the kind ones can be bullied, but do not truly change."
"That sounds pretty cynical," complained the younger woman.
"It is," she was assured.
They sat quietly a moment then, together in the warm summer night, in the gazebo so new it still smelled of varnish, watching the champagne fountain bubble, listening to its rhythmic flow.
"Take my sister," she took up the subject again, looking across to the dance floor, "She thinks her husband has changed, has come round to her way of understanding about what family means, and so they reconcile and have this glorious event. But it is a delusion."
"I sincerely hope not," she frowned.
The beautiful older woman nodded in sympathetic understanding. "You want the delusion too, of course."
"I want their reconciliation to be real."
"Oh well, real is another matter," the woman waved her hand to indicate that this was an entirely different issue. "A delusion can be real, if mutually decided to be such. The delusion her husband has changed will probably last them the rest of their marriage. And they will both be happy for it."
"So, this 'blowpop' theory of yours:" the younger woman turned in to the elder with a question, "Men do not harbor secretly soft interior personalities... "
"It is wisest to believe so," she smiled indulgently.
"They cannot be changed, although perhaps, through mutual delusion, can seem to."
"Correct."
"Wow. What about growth? What about a meeting of minds? What about love?"
"What about these things?" the woman of the world inquired gently.
"Well, don't these things overcome all?"
"Ah, you are a romantic, I see. Despite your independence. That is refreshingly... provincial of you," she responded merrily, and then, "I do not say this to belittle you, dear. Truly."
The young woman smiled a bit ruefully at that.
And each took another thoughtful sip of champagne.
"I would add to all this," went on the older woman, "That so many women break their own hearts by refusing to see the truth, or by hoping men will magically read their minds and become the romantics, the baby-lovers, or the communicators that they are not. It is tragic," she mused sadly. "And, of course, I will allow that communication can be learned by the willing ones..." she reflected further, "But real change is not likely," she concluded and took another sip of champagne.
"I think I might be depressed now."
"Don't be, Cherie. You are wise, like all the women in your family. You will wait and find him—the one for you. And you will not expect him to change. That will be your gift to him: Acceptance."
"But if all men are...."
"Not all. Just most, my dear."
They each stood then and stepped up to the champagne fountain once more to dip their flutes in, then turned to stand at the gazebo railing and look out upon the colorful spinning couples. The orchestra played; You Go To My Head...
"However," the wiser woman went on quietly, "There are rare men. The most worthwhile. These change themselves. They mature in the real sense of the word and become what can be most wonderful in any human being—Actualized, Nurturing, Strong. They can be found, these men, though not easily. Their discovery is not likely."
She mulled that a moment, as she stared out and drank her champagne: These words from this goddess of experience. This Olympian of love. She questioned their truth in the modern world, but also recognized a certain legitimacy in their meaning. And what did that mean to a woman such as herself who, while independent, also wanted equality and friendship? That she should keep trying, she supposed, because, (as she was rarely delusional,) she had perhaps already discovered someone very 'likely' indeed.
"Cheers, Aunt Hope," she smiled then and raised her glass, "and, Thank you."
She felt a lifting in her heart then, despite (or because of?) the champagne and despite the grim, though elegantly delivered, words of advice on the nature of men and romance.
"Certainly, my dear," responded the older woman as she gently clinked her glass to the other. "Isn't it lovely to stand here on a beautiful summer night, drink champagne, and talk of love?"
"Is that what we were talking of?" she challenged with a smile.
"But of course! They do not change, men, but we love them anyway, and what is more likely than that?"