She had silver hair tied neatly behind her shoulders, intelligent eyes, and a calm smile that made the crowded bookstore suddenly feel quiet.
I laughed awkwardly.
“I’m just deciding if it’s worth the money.”
She looked at the book.
Then she looked at me.
“Sometimes the things that change your life are the things you hesitate to buy.”
I smiled.
“I didn’t know books came with life advice.”
“They don’t,” she replied. “People do.”
That was the first time Eleanor made me feel like I was having a conversation with someone who actually saw me.
Not my job.
Not my bank account.
Not my mistakes.
Me.
We talked for nearly two hours.
About books.
About music.
About dreams we had abandoned.
About places we wanted to visit.
When I finally left the store, I realized something strange.
I had forgotten that I was supposed to feel insecure around someone like her.
Because Eleanor was everything I was not.
She was wealthy.
Educated.
Respected.
Her name was known throughout the city.
But she never once made me feel small.
Instead, she asked questions.
She remembered details.
A week later, she remembered that I hated coffee because it tasted bitter and ordered tea for me before I even arrived at our meeting place.
That was when I realized something.
Eleanor was not interested in impressing people.
She was interested in understanding them.
Months passed.
Our friendship became something neither of us expected.
Then one evening, sitting beneath the lights of her garden, Eleanor took
my hand.
“Travis,” she said softly, “people will judge us.”
I smiled.
“They already do.”
She looked away.
“No. They will judge you more than they judge me.”
I knew what she meant.
The age difference.
The rumors.
The assumptions.
I was twenty nine.
She was sixty.
Thirty one years separated us.
A number that became more important to everyone else than the actual relationship between us.
“I don’t care,” I told her.
But she studied my face.
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
“Your family?”
I looked down.
