Anywhere you want. She smiles and for the first time, the future does not feel scary at all. We sit at her kitchen table longer than we need to. The coffee slowly cools between us, but neither of us moves to refill it. Diane’s hand is still resting over mine, her thumb brushing my knuckles in a way that feels absent-minded, like her body already knows this is where it belongs.
Outside, the morning is quiet. No cars, no voices, just the sound of a breeze moving through the trees between our houses. I have not felt this calm in a long time. So she says again, softer now. We are really doing this. Yeah, I say we are. She exhales like she has been holding her breath without realizing it. Good.
Because I do not think I could pretend this did not happen. Neither could I. She stands and takes my mug, rinsing it in the sink. I watch her move around the kitchen, barefoot on the tile, completely comfortable. It feels strange and perfect at the same time. Like something that should have taken years happened in a few days.
I should unpack today, she says. I have not even opened my bags yet. I smile. You disappeared for almost a week. I figured you might need recovery time. She laughs and nudges my shoulder. You are not wrong. When I stand to leave, she walks me to the door. We hesitate there, neither of us wanting to say goodbye, even though we live 10 steps apart. Come over later, she says.
For dinner, I nod. Yeah, I will. The rest of the day passes slowly. I unpack the van, wipe down the counters, put tools back where they belong. Everything looks the same, but it feels different. Like the house knows something has changed. That evening, I walk back over with a bottle of wine and bread from the store.
She answers the door wearing jeans and a soft sweater, her hair down around her shoulders. Hi, she says. Hi. Dinner is simple. Soup and salad. We sit close at her small table, our knees touching. We talk about nothing important. movies she loves, places I have not been yet, things we might want to do.
Later, we move to the couch. She curls into my side without asking. Her head fits under my chin like it was designed for it. Marcus, she says quietly. Can I be honest? Always. I am scared, she admits. Not of you. Just of how fast this feels. I nod. Me too. But I think slow does not always mean careful.
Sometimes it just means waiting too long. She looks up at me, searching my face. Then she smiles. I am glad you said that. We kiss then. Easy and familiar now. No rush. No doubt. As the weeks pass, we settle into something real. Morning coffee together. Walks after dinner. Nights split between my place and hers.
There are moments when the age difference shows up. Different memories, different timelines, but it never feels like a wall, just texture. One night, we sit on her porch watching the sun go down. She leans her head on my shoulder. You know, she says, “If you had not made that stupid joke, none of this would have happened.
” I laugh softly. “Worst joke of my life. Best one,” she corrects. I think about the van, the trip I planned to take alone, the road I thought I needed, and I realize I did not need distance, I needed courage. She turns to me, her eyes warm and steady. Marcus, she says, “What are we waiting for?” I smile and lean in, kissing her as the light fades.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
