The first time she feels this again, it’s more… unsettling than she expected, because it reminds her of a version of herself she thought had quietly retired.
Susan Adler was sixty-three and perfectly content—or so she told herself. A former real estate broker, recently downsized into consulting work she could do from home, she had arranged her life with care. Morning routines. Predictable dinners. Evenings that ended early. Nothing that demanded too much from her body or her emotions.
Desire had been filed away as something she once understood very well and no longer needed to revisit.
Then came Richard Hale.
He was sixty-six, a civil litigation mediator who rented the office next to hers in a shared professional building. Polite. Observant. He spoke slowly, as if words deserved respect. When they passed in the hallway, he made eye contact without lingering, which somehow lingered anyway.
Their conversations began small—weather, parking complaints, the unreliable coffee machine. But Richard listened differently. When Susan spoke, he didn’t nod too quickly or interrupt to prove understanding. He waited until she finished, then responded to what she actually said.
That alone stirred something she hadn’t felt in years.
One afternoon, a storm knocked out power in the building. Tenants gathered in the lobby, mildly annoyed, making phone calls. Susan stood near the window, watching rain slide down the glass, arms crossed loosely over her chest.
Richard joined her without comment.
“This used to make me nervous,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “Being interrupted. Not knowing how long it would last.”
“And now?” he asked.
“Now I just notice it,” she replied.
He smiled at that. Not approving. Understanding.
They waited together in silence. At some point, his hand brushed hers as they shifted their weight. It wasn’t dramatic. No spark meant for novels. Just warmth. Real. Immediate.
Susan inhaled sharply.
There it was.
Not hunger. Not urgency. Something deeper. A physical recognition paired with emotional clarity. Her body remembered before her mind could interfere.
Richard didn’t move his hand away. He didn’t tighten his grip either. He let the moment exist exactly as it was.
Susan felt a quiet rush spread through her—not excitement alone, but confidence. This wasn’t about being chosen. It was about choosing to feel again.
When the lights flickered back on, the crowd dispersed. Susan and Richard remained by the window for a few seconds longer than necessary.
“That felt… familiar,” she said carefully.
He met her eyes. “Familiar doesn’t mean finished.”
She smiled, slow and genuine.
Later, alone in her car, Susan sat with the engine off, hands resting on the steering wheel. The sensation lingered—not in her skin, but in her awareness. The understanding that nothing had been lost. It had only been waiting.
The first time she feels this again, it’s more than desire. It’s recognition. A reminder that age doesn’t dull sensation—it refines it. It strips away performance and leaves only what’s real.
And once that returns, quietly and without apology, it changes how she moves through everything that follows.
