The first touch was unintentional—or at least, it could have been explained that way. His leg moved beneath the table, hers shifted at the same moment, and suddenly, their knees brushed.
She should have moved. That was the natural response, the expected correction. But she didn’t. She let her knee remain there, pressed lightly against his, as though the contact were nothing more than coincidence.
But it wasn’t.
The pressure was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, yet to her it was everything. She could feel the warmth of him seeping through fabric into her skin, a steady hum of awareness that spread upward, making her breath come quicker. She was an old woman, yes, but the years did nothing to dull the way her body remembered desire. The contact felt alive, almost forbidden, and that was why she didn’t move.
He noticed—she knew he did. His posture stilled, his voice faltered ever so slightly as he spoke. He didn’t pull back, either. The silence between their bodies beneath the table spoke louder than words could.
Her fingers curled against her lap, restless, betraying the storm inside her. She wanted to pretend it was nothing, to hide behind the mask of indifference. But the truth pressed insistently against her knee—warm, undeniable, electric.
Her thoughts tangled. Should she shift away now, laugh it off, let it vanish into chance? Or should she stay, keep the moment alive, let it breathe? Every second she stayed was a confession, one he surely felt mirrored in the steady firmness of his leg against hers.
The room around them blurred. She barely heard the voices, the clatter of glasses, the rhythm of conversation. All she knew was that under the table, unseen, unspoken, something illicit bloomed in silence.
When she finally shifted—much later than she should have—she did it slowly, deliberately, almost reluctantly. The absence stung. Her skin still tingled with memory, her body still humming from the quiet thrill.
No one else noticed. No one else knew. But beneath the table, an old woman had chosen to confess something with her body, even if her lips never dared to speak it.