The signs had all presented themselves. I had chosen to dismiss them. I had, for instance, noticed the hearse ‒ back window partially open‒waiting at the exact intersection I needed to turn into the market. A lapis sky foamed with puffy white clouds compelled me to call the hearse coincidence.

 

Other coincidences and a heavy boredom with my aging life pushed me to make some changes. Beginning small, I switched out my usually designated market day. At the market, I found most of what I needed was out of stock or out of reach with no one to help me, and at the self-checkout I dropped the apples to the floor. They would be bruised now and ruined. They would rot before I could put them to use. Retrieving them, I dropped my keys, then my book. (I always carried a book on my person.) But really, all and all, insufficient evidence for any logical person to draw conclusions of impending calamity. I felt fine, even suspended my rule about indulging in sleep thieving coffee in the afternoons and slipped into a café. A handful of people there hunched over white screened laptops.

 

Proceeding to the smiling barista, I dropped my bag into an empty chair, but upon returning, discovered my bag gone! A quick look around revealed everyone previously there was still there, still hunched. Scanning the wrap around window of the café, I saw no one effecting escape with my distinctive yellow bag.

 

“My bag is gone!” I hissed to the barista.

“What?”

I leaned in, repeated.  “My bag is gone!”

“Is this it?” A voice from behind me. A young man offered up my blazing yellow imitation alligator bag.

“Where ‒?”                                                                                                

“Someone was leaving with it. It didn’t go with his outfit, so –.”  For some reason, the barista, a young, blonde girl, giggled.

“Thank you! I said taking the bag. “You’re a life saver. May I –?”  and opened my wallet to dig for a bill.

“Oh no, please don’t.” The slight squeeze from the young man’s hand on mine straightened my back. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee though.” Handing over the bag, he said, “It’s heavy. You are a reader of books perhaps?”

 

I didn’t mind that he ordered the priciest froth, several pastries. “Gosh.” The young man rubbed a large fingered hand over a head of deep auburn hair while we waited for his order to be filled. “A beautiful woman and coffee too.” May I confide to you, I have never been called beautiful. I must tell you; it was thrilling.

 

Obviously, a good-looking young man, a deep masculinity about him. At the table, he sat in a man spread ending in worn golden boots with thick soles.  I guessed him to be a good ten to fifteen years younger than me, his voice a ringing bell.

Time to go and vanity reminded me to swallow the grunt that usually accompanied my push to rise from a chair, but I could not hide the limp I sported from old knees. He escorted me to my car at a respectful pace.

“Is it possible…”  he lowered his head as he asked “…that we meet again? I need some reading recommendations.” He had big white teeth. I wrote out my number silently including a goodbye, but through some enchantment, he did phone and was waiting for me at the café when I arrived the following Wednesday.

 

He spoke of his athletic background, travels around the country competing in games and competitions of all sorts. He didn’t really need the tiny medal disk with a trophy icon in bas-relief that hung from his neck to verify his background. I could see it in those shoulders. Much of what he related he had already shared with me at our first meeting, but I didn’t mind. Wednesday became our day.

 

“Do you always pay?” A book club friend had asked. I had shared my new adventure with her.  

“That matters?” I said suspicious of a lurking jealousy.

“Has he asked to come to your house?”

 

“No, nor to borrow any money or my car.” It occurred to me that he never called in between our Wednesdays, but I dismissed any need to mention this.

 

“Be careful.” My friend warned. “He’s young.” She stopped short of the obvious question: what possible use would a young man have for a woman my age? I had already entertained that question and decided the answer: it was a sign from That Which Rewards Willingness to Change. Besides, I have things to offer beyond youth. I have ideas. Imagination.

 

I barely heard the book discussion that evening, smiled when I discovered I could finish their sentences, was bored by what they found remarkable. Perhaps I could do without a book club populated by such shallow, transparent characters. Next day, I treated myself to a new dress and haircut, inquired about a lipstick that might brighten my smile. That night, a nearly forgotten twisting beneath my skin visited, disrupting my usual deep sleep.

​

An old college girlfriend was passing through town. “Just time for a quick coffee.” she said. Did I know a place?

“Love your dress!” She announced as we approached the café. “And that haircut! You look ten years younger!” A flutter of vexation shot through me. I confessed my disappointment to her that I received no remark from him on my makeover.

“Men are not good at that sort of thing.” She sighed.

​

My friend and I laughed and quipped about men, their powers and shortcomings. I was about to ask her opinion on signs and young men who asked about books without somehow ever getting around to discussing them when I spotted a head of deep auburn hair atop an athletic build.

​

“Adrien?” I stood before him. A chill scrunched my face, squeezed into a knot on the top of my head, the hairs there seemed to be pulling their roots from my scalp. A professionally coiffed brunette of a certain age stood beside him.

​

“Hello!” she said to me while accepting her purse from his hand.

​

“Adrien.” I started to say, “Adrien, I don’t understand. What are you –.”

But I was interrupted first by the brunette, “What a lifesaver, isn’t he?” and then the barista. “Are you ready to order?”