The year I turned 65, my life seemed peaceful. My husband had died a long time ago, my children already had their own families and rarely came to visit. I lived alone in a small house on the outskirts. In the evenings, I used to sit by the window, listen to the birds singing, and watch the golden sun spread over the empty street. A calm life, but deep inside, there was an emptiness I’d never wanted to admit: loneliness.
That day was my birthday. No one remembered it, not a call or a congratulations. I decided to take a night bus into the city alone. I didn’t have a plan; I just wanted to do something different, a “daring” act before it was too late.
I walked into a small bar. The yellow lighting was warm, the music soft. I chose a secluded corner and ordered a glass of red wine. I hadn’t had a drink in a long time; the astringent, sweet taste spread over my tongue and comforted me.
As I watched people walk by, I saw a man approaching. He was in his early 40s, with a hint of gray in his hair and a deep, serene gaze. He sat down across from me and smiled:
“May I buy you another drink?”
I laughed and gently corrected him:
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ I’m not used to it.”