Death in Love

When you're young

and the woman in your hands is young,

you're provoked by the life in her skin;

in the muscles under her skin.

You can smell life

in the sweet perfume of her sweat,

in her breath,

sweet perfume that can make you dizzy.

You can sense life in the jittery convulsions

of her reaction to every new touch and sensation.

And you feel young and alive

and jolted by excitement every time you come near her.

But the older you get,

the older the woman in your hands gets,

you grow lulled by the lazy response

of her flesh to your touch,

lulled by the numb response of your own nerves to her flesh,

by the sluggish torpor of her muscles;

the souring perfume of her sweat;

of her tears;

the souring smell of her old guts

belching out air.

And it's a curse,

because getting older doesn't make you

like being with an old woman

any more than you did when you were young.

It's worse, really,

because it lacks even

the thrill of novelty or the forbidden.

She's just old,

and she reminds you that you're old

and that your old shell is still taking up space

but that its life is almost gone.

But nothing's worse

than being old and holding youth in your hands,

even youth that's thrilled by the novelty of you.

Because you can still smell youth's sweetness,

feel the spring of muscles under her taut skin,

but you know it isn't yours.

You're not sharing in it

but are feeding off it like some kind of vampire.

And you wonder what the point is,

what the point of going on living,

the point of loving, the point of touching.

And all your instincts, your training,

have made you too afraid to pull the trigger

and end it yourself,

to take responsibility that nature has abdicated

into your own trembling, weakening hands.

You stare at those hands,

studying them, wondering what they are,

why you can't make them do what you want them to do.

You stare down at your hands

and you realize that even your own hands

aren't really yours anymore.

And you look up from your hand into the mirror

and you see a face that you recognize,

a face that you've been staring at for your entire life,

for eternity,

and you remember that the face is yours,

but you have no idea who you are anymore.

And the person you once were

who had any kind of cohesiveness or connection to himself

feels a million Miles away,

like the native of some alien planet

you visited long ago

in another lifetime.

That's what it's like to be 40

Jesus Christ, you look better than my brother.

He just graduated law school.

That's the curse I'm talking about:

What you're looking at isn't real,

none of it.

You do smell kind of different from younger guys.

Their sweat is electric.

It's scary,

not so much fun sometimes.

I mean, your muscles are still there and everything,

but it's different.

It's mellower.

I feel like I can relax.

I don't know if you remember,

but it's not so much fun being young

and freaked out about everything all the time.

It doesn't change.

Haven't you even been listening to me?

I know 14-year-old girls who sound like you do.

I bet you sounded exactly the same when you were 14,

although you'd have something different to be depressed about,

'cause you wouldn't be old.

Old? I'm 40.

You said it.

God could reverse your age back 20 years,

and you'd still be complaining

about how you miss being old again.

- I'm not old. - No.

You're depressed.

Being old's got nothing to do with it.

I'll tell you the worst part about getting old.

You said you weren't.

It's getting lectured by kids who think they know everything.

That's the worst part.

It's getting lectured by kids

who think that all the shit you're going through now

is gonna add up to something good later,

that for everything you lose, you'll gain something.

Well, you won't.

I am doing you a fucking favor.

You want to hang out

with an old guy so you can feel relaxed?

Well, then allow him to do you this favor

and tell you that you will lose everything and gain nothing,

not a single fucking thing

except the knowledge that you've lost everything

and gained nothing.

Nothing?

You say you want to do me a favor,

but you give me nothing.

How's that doing me a favor?

By helping you lower your expectations.

Lower your expectations,

and the pain of realizing how empty it all is

might be lessened.

So you want to ruin my happiness now

so you can spare me pain later?

I'll take my happiness.

I'll take my pain.

The only thing I don't want are your goddamn favors.

You should feel guilty

about hanging out with young girls.

Although, if I were you, I would feel guiltier

about hanging out with the old ones,

because I imagine that they have enough shit to deal with

without being invaded by your bullshit about nothing.

I would feel guilty about hanging out with my friends,

if I were you.

I would go into a room,

crawl into a closet and lock the door.

I'm sorry.

For what?

I'm just sorry, all right?

No, you're not.

What the hell are you talking about?

I'm telling you I'm sorry, and you saying I'm not

isn't gonna change that I'm sorry.

No.

You can say whatever you want to say,

but you're not sorry.

You're hurt.

I tried. I... I'm sorry.

No, you're not.

It's not like I did anything terrible to you.

Give me something here, will you?

I thought you were the one handing out favors.

The explosion rocked the twin towers

of the World Trade Center at about 12:15,

sending many of the 130,000 people

who either work or visit the towers each day

scurrying into the streets.

Sources say a huge bomb exploded

on Level B2 of the garage below the Vista Hotel.

Thanks, Joe.

Reinforced concrete in the garage

absorbed most of the explosion,

preventing what could have been a disaster from occurring

as firefighters made a second sweep.

You have to come to school to see my teacher.

How's that?

She saw us all scrambling around on the playground,

and she said she wanted to see the mothers

of all the boys that was fighting,

so, pa, I guess you're gonna have to go for me.

Young ones, young ones, young ones, young ones.

Yeah, everything's fine.

No, no.

Everything's okay.

Yeah, I'll come over for dinner

I don't know, around 7:00?

No. No, I've got some stuff to do this afternoon.

Come on, you got me here waiting 15 minutes already.

Come on all ready, we're late!

There are 20 less seconds on the shot clock.

That's the game clock you're looking at.

You can't leave him alone.

Mm.

So beautiful.

Look at that beautiful face.

Look at the clothes you're wearing.

- Hey, dad. - My son.

So beautiful, and you hide it under theseshmates.

I don't understand it.

What are you ashamed of?

I still have that beautiful jacket I bought for you.

It's waiting in your father's closet

anytime you want to wear it.

Hey, bro.

Your brother wrote a new piece.

Yeah? I can't wait to hear it.

I'm just practicing.

I'll play it for you later. I can't wait.