He didn’t answer.
The silence between us was painful.
But I didn’t take back my decision.
I sold the house.
I packed one suitcase.
And I left.
The first night in Australia, I cried in my hotel room.
Not because I regretted coming.
Because I couldn’t believe I had actually done it.
The next morning, I went downstairs alone.
I ordered breakfast.
Then I walked along the water.
No one called me.
No one needed a ride.
No one asked me to transfer money.
No one wanted anything.
For the first time in decades, I belonged entirely to myself.
It was terrifying.
It was wonderful.
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.
