A lonely sixty-seven-year-old man who had mistaken intensity for intimacy.
“My daughters barely call,” he said quietly.
Diane’s expression softened.
He continued.
“My marriage ended twelve years ago. I retired last spring. Half the time I eat dinner standing at the counter because setting a table for one feels ridiculous.”
He looked at her.
“Then I met you.”
Diane sat in the chair across from him.
“I liked meeting you.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
“Because liking you isn’t a contract.”
Malcolm looked down.
“I thought you felt what I felt.”
“I did.”
His eyes lifted.
“For four days.”
That silenced him.
Diane continued more gently.
“You made me feel alive again. I’m grateful for that.”
“Then stay.”
“No.”
He winced.
She took a breath.
“You keep hearing my ‘no’ as fear you have to cure.”
Malcolm didn’t answer.
“It isn’t fear.”
Diane stood.
