He was in his mid-thirties, tall, well-dressed, with dark hair and the kind of confident smile that made people turn their heads without realizing it. He stopped beside my table and asked if the seat was taken.
I almost said yes.
Instead, I said no.
He smiled.
And sat down.
He did not speak to me like I was old.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He looked directly into my eyes. He listened when I talked. He laughed softly at the right moments. He told 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.
A woman.
