The room was crowded, but she made space for him beside her. The chair was small, barely enough for one. Still, she tapped the cushion beside her and said, “Come. Sit.”
He obeyed.
Close—too close—but neither of them flinched.
They spoke quietly, about nothing and everything. Her voice was deep, smooth from time and cigarettes and memory. He laughed at something she said. She leaned in, brushing her shoulder against his. And then it happened.
Her hand, warm and calm, settled on his thigh.
He thought at first it was for balance, maybe a casual gesture from someone her age. But she didn’t shift it. Didn’t pull away. Her fingers flexed just slightly, her thumb moving in the smallest arc—barely a motion, more like a reminder.
She kept talking, eyes forward, lips moving. But her hand… stayed.
It was not innocent.
It was not confused.
She knew exactly what the weight of her palm, placed just there, would do to a younger man’s imagination.
She let the silence stretch after her last sentence, like a thread waiting to be tugged.
And when he finally turned to look at her, she was already watching him—steady, patient.
That hand never moved.
And somehow… neither did he.