“I’m done with men,” she told her daughter firmly over tea one afternoon. Her voice was calm, but final. Decades of disappointment, two divorces, and one lonely widowhood had hardened her resolve. She didn’t need anyone anymore.
But that night — after midnight, once the house was silent — something shifted.
She walked barefoot across the wooden floor of her bedroom and opened the drawer she never spoke of. Inside: a red velvet pouch. She opened it slowly, revealing a thin gold chain, a single love letter from 1978, and a small vial of perfume that hadn’t been touched in years.
She spritzed once — just once — and the scent hit her like memory: warm skin, whispered laughter, hotel rooms with no clocks.
She slipped into a silk slip — the one she never wore in front of anyone. Then, without turning on the lights, she stood by the window, letting the cool breeze move across her skin. Her hand traced her collarbone like it used to when she waited for someone she knew was on his way.
No one came that night. No one needed to.
She wasn’t done with men. She was done with settling.
And as she stood there, bathed in moonlight, alone but not lonely, she smiled — not for the world, but for herself. Because even now, deep in the quiet of night, she still felt like a woman.
And that was enough.