David had almost canceled. Three times. He’d stood in front of his closet, staring at the same three shirts, wondering what the hell he was doing agreeing to dinner with a woman he’d met at the bookstore cafe. At fifty-nine, he’d convinced himself that the dating part of his life had ended with the divorce papers. Claudia was different from the start. She’d approached him, not the other way around. They met at a steakhouse near the marina. David arrived seven minutes early. Claudia arrived exactly on time. She wore a burgundy dress that managed to be both appropriate and dangerous. By the time dessert arrived, something had shifted. She leaned back in the booth. David was mid-sentence when he noticed it. Her legs slowly uncrossed. Not dramatically. Just a subtle shift that opened her posture toward him. The dress rode up slightly. Enough that David could see the smooth skin of her inner thigh. He lost his train of thought. Claudia didn’t acknowledge the shift. She just held his gaze. You’re staring, David, she said. Only invitation. I’m sorry. Yes, you did. She reached across and touched his hand. And I want you to. I live three blocks from here, she said. David paid the check. They walked through the cool evening air. At her door she turned to face him. If you’re going to overthink this, do it tomorrow. Tonight, just say yes. He said yes. Some doors open slowly. Some swing wide. The wise man knows the difference.
