Most people in town thought Clara had sworn herself off men completely. Widowed in her fifties, she carried herself with a dignity that told younger guys not to bother and made men her own age stumble over polite words. She would smile, say “thank you,” and drift away before any of them could think of asking for her number.
But the married ones—those she pretended not to notice—were a different story. She told herself she didn’t go looking for them. Still, the ring on a man’s hand always pulled her eyes longer than it should. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the certainty that a married man would never press her for more than she wanted to give. Whatever it was, she couldn’t deny the pulse it sent through her body.
David noticed it the night he walked her to her car after choir practice. He was in his late sixties, tall, with a deep laugh that seemed to fill the church hall. His wife, everyone knew, rarely came anymore. Clara tried to ignore how close his hand brushed hers as he carried her hymn book. She pretended not to feel the warmth that lingered in the narrow space between them.
“Thank you,” she said softly when they reached her car. But she didn’t unlock the door right away. Her fingers lingered on the handle, trembling. David stood too close, his breath warming the side of her cheek.
She whispered, “You shouldn’t.”
And yet she tilted her face upward, ever so slightly, her lips parting in hesitation. His hand rested against the roof of her car, caging her in. Her knees weakened. The air turned heavy.
The first touch wasn’t a kiss. It was his thumb brushing along her wrist, slow as if tracing a secret. That single touch undid her more than any stolen kiss ever could. She shivered, her chest rising sharply as if her body betrayed what her mouth tried to deny.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes. “That’s because I told myself I don’t do this.”
But she didn’t pull away. She let his hand wander upward, over the soft fabric of her sleeve, until his fingers rested just above her elbow. The smallest squeeze, and her whole body leaned closer.
Married men had always been the line she claimed she wouldn’t cross. She told herself they were safe to flirt with in passing, safe to admire from a distance. But standing there in the dim glow of the church parking lot, she realized how thin that line really was. Every nerve in her body screamed to step over it.
When his lips finally grazed hers, it wasn’t the clumsy desperation of single men she’d turned down before. It was measured, careful, laced with the weight of everything unspoken. Her back pressed against the car door, her breath shallow and uneven. Her hand rose to his chest, not to stop him, but to feel the solid thump of the heart she knew didn’t belong to her.
It should have been guilt that burned through her. Instead, it was hunger—raw, aching, undeniable. She didn’t want him to leave her whole. She wanted him to take a piece, even if only for a night.
And in that moment, Clara understood herself more than ever: she avoided single men because they wanted her future. Married men only wanted her secret.
