I met Arthur in a secondhand bookstore.
We reached for the same detective novel.
Our hands touched.
He looked at me.
Then at the book.
Then back at me.
“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”
“At our age?”
He smiled.
“Fair point.”
“You’re assuming I’m old.”
“You’re assuming I’m old.”
“You’re the one who said ‘at our age.’”
He laughed.
And just like that, we started talking.
His name was Arthur Bennett.
Seventy-one.
Widowed.
Retired.
Dry sense of humor.
Terrible taste in sandwiches.
And an extraordinary ability to make me laugh when I wasn’t expecting it.
We had coffee that afternoon.
Then again two days later.
Then lunch.
Then a long walk.
Neither of us called it dating.
We were simply two older people who enjoyed each other’s company.
We talked about our spouses.
Arthur’s wife, Anne, had died seven years earlier.
They had been married for thirty-eight years.
