We noticed her before we meant to. That was the lie we told ourselves. She didn’t interrupt our lives - she slipped into the quiet places we’d already abandoned. The pauses between meetings. The rooms our wives stopped entering barefoot.
We told ourselves she was different. That she saw us. That her attention felt earned, not inherited by time or title.
She laughed like she trusted us. Looked up when she spoke, not in submission, but invitation. It made us feel taller. Necessary.
We liked how she listened as if we still had something to teach. How she touched us like our age was an asset, not a warning.
We called her mature. Precocious. Dangerous, if we’re being honest.
With her, we felt absolved, as if desire could rewrite history, as if being wanted now meant we hadn’t failed before. We knew the rules we were breaking. That was part of the appeal. She didn’t ask for more. She didn’t demand truth. She didn’t threaten to stay.
We mistook her silence for consent to forget ourselves.
After, we went back to our lives, back to weddings framed on desks, to routines held together by habit. She left no marks we could explain, only a quiet dissatisfaction that followed us home.
We told ourselves we hadn’t hurt anyone. That it meant nothing. That she was in control.
We didn’t ask what it cost her to make us feel chosen.
Years later, we still remember her, not clearly, but intensely. A feeling more than a face. A moment where we were not invisible.
We were older. We should have known better.
But wanting to be wanted has no age.
Chloe