The all-night diner on Route 9 had been Sarah’s discovery during her divorce. She’d sit in the corner booth, drinking bad coffee. She was fifty-four now, two years past the final decree. The diner had become her sanctuary. Until he showed up. It was 12:47 AM when James walked in, shaking rain from his coat, sliding into the booth across from hers. He was probably sixty, with weathered look and sad eyes. You’re in my booth, Sarah said. There are no assigned booths in diners, he replied. James. And before you ask, yes, I’m avoiding going home. My wife died four months ago. I’m avoiding going home too. My divorce was final two years ago. They talked. About loss, about grief and relief. By 2 AM, the diner had emptied. Sarah found herself not wanting the conversation to end. I live two miles from here, she said. I have a guest room. Or a couch. Or whatever you need to not be alone tonight. James looked at her. I don’t want to be alone. But I also don’t want to take advantage. You’re not. I’m offering. There’s a difference. They drove separately. Her house was modest, tidy. The guest room is there, she said. The couch is there. And my bedroom is there. I’m not offering out of charity, James. I’m offering because it’s 2 AM and I’m tired of being alone and I want someone to touch me. James understood. He followed her to the bedroom. Sarah moved with urgency that surprised them both. She pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around him. This wasn’t gentle lovemaking. This was need, pure and simple. Afterward, they lay tangled. Thank you, he said. Don’t thank me. Women over fifty who invite you to their house at 2 AM don’t want conversation, James. We want connection. Sometimes the bravest thing is admitting you don’t want to be alone.
