The Curtain of Years

Form I – The Curtain

I arrived with a quiet anticipation, the maroon of my shirt holding its own glow against the dim bar light. A first drink is always a performance of sorts — a stage not set with props, but with possibility. Two people meeting, two lives aligning for a brief scene. Yet before the dialogue began, a curtain descended. Not the velvet of the opera house, heavy with grandeur, but the invisible fabric of years. It was called a chasm, as if a handful of seasons could stretch into a canyon. Age became the curtain pulled too early, closing the play before the first act had even found its rhythm.

There are encounters that never truly begin. Sometimes, even before words take shape, a single thought rises like a wall: Age. As if a few numbers on a calendar could transform a table in a bar into a precipice. That evening, the curtain dropped before the stage was even lit. Not velvet, but habit. Not grandeur, but polite excuses. Yet everyone knows that time is not a wall: some people are young and already tired as the old, while others, older, still burn with the brightness of summer. Still, the safety of the curtain was chosen, rather than the risk of curiosity.

There are curtains that fall far too soon. A drink, a first encounter, and already time is evoked as a barrier. Years. Not years lived together, but numbers pronounced like a sentence. In the theatre I hoped to open, the curtain dropped before the orchestra had even played the first note. I would have liked the years to be richness — difference as harmony, not distance. But he saw a chasm where I saw only the possibility of a bridge. And so the curtain marked an ending, before there had truly been a beginning.

Form II – Silence vs. Storytelling

The evening itself unfolded unevenly. He spoke in long, uninterrupted lines — shadows of his past, wounds carried from the years when he was still a student. He shared assaults, betrayals, a catalog of dark incidents that seemed to echo louder than the music in the room. I listened, as one listens to a voice rehearsed too many times. When I spoke of my own work — the fragile architecture of my website, the visions I hold for its future — my words slipped unnoticed into the quiet, like stage directions ignored by the actor determined to keep his spotlight. It was not a duet, nor even a dialogue. It was a solo. And I, more spectator than partner, understood that silence had become my only line.

He spoke at length, as though speech itself could exorcise his ghosts — stories of youth, of trials, of shadows that had shaped him. And I listened. It felt like watching a private rehearsal: the text already known, the intonations already set. When I mentioned my own projects — my site, my dreams of literature and travel — he did not follow me. My words fell flat, as if I had spoken into an empty hall. It was not conversation, but confession. He mistook narration for exchange. And I, in that moment, understood that silence was the only role left to me.

He talked and talked, as one who longs to free himself, not to share. Stories of wounds, shadows, a past that still cried out within him. I remained in listening, trying to give space, as an audience member does when an actor never pauses. I tried to insert my voice — my project, my imagined future — but it fell into the void, without echo. There was no duet, no harmony. Only a single aria sung by one voice, while the other remained behind the curtain, excluded. In that silence, I found my form of resistance: not to interrupt, but to keep my voice for other stages.

Form III – The Gift of Clarity

And then came the closing remark, as abrupt as the dimming of lights: the age gap would create a chasm, and someone closer in years would be better. It was not cruel; it was almost gentle, like the draw of a curtain meant to spare the audience from watching a play without promise. Disappointment came, but so did relief. For in those words lay a rare truth: the story would not continue, and I would not be left waiting for an encore that would never arrive. Clarity, in its unadorned honesty, was the only gift exchanged. A gift that frees, even as it ends.

Then came the final phrase, without appeal: the age difference would form a gulf, it was better to seek elsewhere. It was not cruelty, but polite justification. The curtain closed, protecting each of us from the illusion of a second act. I could have felt bitterness, but I recognized in that sentence a rare frankness. Clarity does not bring happiness, but it spares us from illusions. It was neither Carmen nor Cyrano: no flamboyant drama, just a bare lucidity. And that lucidity, paradoxically, was the only gift of the evening.

At last he pronounced the sentence: the difference in age would be an abyss, better to find someone closer to his years. It was not malice, but courtesy disguised as sincerity. The curtain fell, preventing the play from dragging on into an empty act. I felt disappointment, yes, but also relief. In that clarity there was a gift: no illusion, no vain waiting. Not a Shakespearean tragedy, not a full opera, but the awareness that some stories are born already concluded. Clarity — hard but limpid — was the only applause at the end.

Coda

Some curtains fall too soon,
yet save us from longer silences.

Better a curtain that falls cleanly
than a theatre of illusions.

A fallen curtain
is worth more than a prolonged deception.