me he was a photographer, that he had traveled for work, that he loved old movies and quiet women with sad eyes.
I should have found that line ridiculous.
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time in years, someone was looking at me as if I was still a woman.
Not a mother.
Not a widow.
Not someone forgotten in the background of other people’s lives.
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A woman.
Alive.
Seen.
Wanted.
The second glass of wine came.
Then the third.
We talked about life, loneliness, mistakes, and all the things people keep inside because no one asks anymore.
At some point, his hand brushed mine on the table.
I did not pull away.
His fingers were warm.
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And something inside me, something I thought had died long ago, woke up quietly.
That night, I went upstairs with him to a hotel room.
I
