Of Symbols and Skin

"The beautiful is that which pleases universally without a concept."
— Immanuel Kant

"You know," an older woman was saying to a much younger one after some initial rounds of philosophical talk on relationships that had the older woman carefully swirling the wine in her glass, "Kant doesn't come across as a great fan of sex. Not as a full person-to-person encounter, at least. He sees it as inherently objectifying."

Eleanor, the older woman, had come out of hiding for a Fourth of July party at her brother’s. He usually gathered unusual types. The younger Clara leaned in, smiling faintly. Her long dark hair fell over one shoulder, catching the evening sunlight coming through under the willow tree. "Because we use the body of the other as a means to our own pleasure?”

The two had talked once before at a similar party a few years back. Eleanor was practicing Clara’s name in her mind to keep her focused and not too distracted by the younger woman’s beauty.

"Exactly. Unless sex is redeemed by mutual commitment, mutual recognition of autonomy,” said Eleanor. “Otherwise, we slip into... appetite."

"And yet," Clara said, eyes flashing, her young skin smooth as a rose petal, "don't we use each other all the time? For attention, for comfort, for inspiration? Why is sex so special?"

"Maybe," Eleanor mused, "it’s because sex is so intense. So immediate. It reduces the other person faster and more thoroughly than conversation such as this does."

"Foucault," Clara offered, putting his name out there like a flag before continuing, "would say that's all just another power dynamic. There's no moral high ground. Only webs of domination and resistance."

Eleanor chuckled. "Yes, but then Foucault smuggles in his own preferences, doesn't he? If power is everything, why prefer resistance to domination?" Eleanor wasn’t sure where the younger Clara would go with this. It made it exciting.

"Exactly," Clara said, chuckling, then her voice warm and precise. "I never trust a relativist with a hidden moral code."

Eleanor laughed and found herself watching Clara too long. The smooth, unhurried movement of her hand as she gestured; the play of thought across her face, which was intelligent and lightly amused; the fine black dress she wore, simple and just exquisitely cut. And the voice. That voice, cool and strong, as if each word had been carved rather than spoken.

There was beauty, certainly. But there was also the beauty of mind, of hunger, of a clarity not yet worn away by fatigue. Not just youth, Eleanor realized. Life. Curiosity. Courage.

Eleanor became self conscious of her own dress. She could feel the lines on her face wrinkling like those on a walnut.

"Do you like wine?" Eleanor asked suddenly.

Clara grinned sideways. "Do you like oxygen?"

Without thinking, Eleanor said, "I most like the oxygen sustaining you."

Clara caught it immediately. Her smile widened, but she said in a dry, playful voice, "Easy. Down girl."

The phrase surprised Eleanor. It had a relaxed, knowing twang to it—almost country. She wondered, absurdly, if Clara had grown up around horses. There was a steadiness in her, a way of brushing off awkwardness without shutting down the connection.

For a moment they both looked away. There were fireworks going off in other parts of town, faint and early, and the trees shook with it. It was the Fourth of July, after all.

They drifted into safer topics—books and food, mutual friends mingling somewhere across the patio—but the tension remained, invisible and persistent, like an electrical field.

Eventually Clara circled back. "You know," she said, almost lightly, "we talk about respecting autonomy. But when does admiration tip into appropriation? When does loving someone younger become a way of consuming their vitality, instead of seeing them as they are?"

Eleanor tilted her head. "Good question. But couldn't it also be that the particulars—the real particulars—are what arrest us? Not youth in the abstract. Not the symbol. But the sound of a voice. The way someone listens. The smoothness of skin."

"Not just a symbol," Clara said softly. "An actual person. Yes, I like that."

They sipped their wine. Across the fence, a string of firecrackers went off and then were over, smoke appearing in the evening breeze.

"Think about Gatsby," Eleanor said eager to keep Clara’s attention. "He falls for Daisy, but it's not just her, is it? It's youth, dreams, money, the whole shimmering illusion."

"And Jake in The Sun Also Rises?" Clara added. "Brett is freedom, chaos, everything he can't have."

"So are we always falling for symbols?" Eleanor mused. "Or do we sometimes—miraculously—fall for a real person, complete with cracked voice and sharp mind and the smell of their aging, or young skin?" Eleanor was boldly looking at Clara’s fine hands.

Clara turned her face toward Eleanor and saw not just a figure or an ideal, but a whole separate world—a mind thinking its own thoughts, a life weaving its own strange tapestry.

"Maybe," Clara said, smiling, "it's both."

"Maybe," Eleanor agreed, and smiled back.

A man walked up with an eager smile. “Eleanor, this is my husband, Rob.”