I was old enough to be his grandmother, God help me, but when a young Adonis falls into your lap, what can you do?
And it’s not like I’m dead. (Yet.)
The truth was that I was well into my 50’s (although I told everyone I was 40), and had been a widow for ten years. The truth was that I still had flesh on these bones, albeit a bit wrinkled, and there was still warm blood pulsing in these veins. The truth, damnit, was that I still felt alive, but I live in a society that expects your hormones to stop functioning after forty.
I knew this young man was probably repulsed by me, but I couldn’t help myself. I found myself caught in the throes of what could only be called a crush, waking up eager in the morning to see him, taking care over my hair and makeup. Rushing to bring him some cool lemonade at the slightest sign of him breaking into a sweat.
I hadn’t felt this way in years, and the feeling was like a poison I couldn’t resist. Unfortunately, it came with an antidote: our 20+ years difference in age.
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