Instead, nervous, I said:
“No.”
He smiled.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to convince you.”
And he sat down.
Julian did not speak to me as though I were old.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He looked directly into my eyes.
He listened when I spoke.
He laughed at the right moments.
He told me he was a photographer who traveled often and loved old films, quiet places, and women with stories in their eyes.
I should have thought it was a foolish line.
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time in years, someone looked at me as though I were still a woman.
Alive.
Visible.
Desired.
A second glass of wine arrived.
Then a third.
We spoke about loneliness, regret, and all the things people hide because no one asks about them anymore.
At one point, Julian asked why I had come alone.
I looked into my glass.
