He sighed.
“Margaret.”
I
looked at him.
He was nervous.
The same man who had entered that bar with a secret and sat beside me as though he knew exactly what he was doing.
Now his hands were shaking.
“What?”
“What happens when I’m sixty-two and you’re seventy-seven?”
I thought about it.
Then shrugged.
“You’ll finally be interesting.”
He laughed.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I stepped closer.
“Daniel, when I turned sixty-two, I thought my life was shrinking.”
His expression softened.
“I thought every important thing had already happened. Marriage. Children. Robert. Loss. I thought the rest would be smaller.”
I touched his cheek.
“Then one irritating photographer walked into a bar.”
“Irritating?”
“Extremely.”
“And?”
“And my life exploded.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m not finished.”
He smiled.
I continued.
“I don’t know what happens when I’m seventy-seven.”
“Neither do I.”
“Exactly.”
The wind blew snow around us.
