The local bookstore’s reading nook was quiet, just the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of the air conditioner. He’d been coming here every Wednesday afternoon for months, a leather-bound book in hand, a cup of hot cocoa (extra marshmallows) on the small table next to him. It was his escape—from the empty house, from the endless reruns on TV, from the way time seemed to drag now that he was retired. The reading nook was a little corner in the back, with a plush armchair that fit him like a glove and a window that looked out at the park. Then Margaret had started coming, too. She was a regular at the bookstore, always browsing the fiction section before settling into the chair across from him. She wore simple things—cardigans, blouses, knee-length skirts—and she always had a stack of romance novels in her lap. They’d exchanged nods at first, then small talk about the books they were reading, then longer conversations about their lives. Now, Wednesdays were the best day of his week.
Today, Margaret had been telling him about the book she’d just finished—a historical romance set in the 1940s—and he’d been listening, really listening, but then she shifted in her chair. It was a natural movement, the kind you make when your back starts to ache, but when she leaned forward to reach for her tea, her skirt rode up. Just a little. Enough to show a sliver of her thigh, soft and pale, above her sheer nylons. He froze, his eyes darting to the exposed skin before he could stop himself, then quickly back to her face. She was still talking, her voice steady, like she hadn’t noticed. But then she sat back, and she didn’t smooth the skirt down. She just let it stay—ridden up, that small sliver of skin still visible—and picked up her book, flipping through the pages like nothing was different. He felt his ears heat up, a feeling he hadn’t had since he was a teenager, and he took a sip of his cocoa to hide his smile.
“…and then he kissed her in the rain,” Margaret finished, looking up at him, her eyes twinkling. “Classic, but I still loved it.” He nodded, his throat a little dry. “Yeah,” he said. “Rainy kisses are always good.” Margaret laughed, a low, throaty sound, and shifted again—this time, on purpose, he was sure. Her skirt rode up a little more, and she crossed her legs, letting the fabric stay where it was. “You know,” she said, leaning back in her chair, her book resting on her lap, “they’re having a book signing here next week. A romance author. I was thinking of going… but it’s always more fun with someone else.” Her eyes stayed on his, warm and inviting, and he noticed she still hadn’t smoothed her skirt. That small sliver of thigh was still there, a silent reminder of the little secret between them. He set his cocoa down, his smile growing. “I could go with you,” he said. “I’ve never been to a book signing. Might be fun.” Margaret’s smile widened, and she flipped a page in her book, her skirt still riding up. “It will be,” she said, her voice soft. “I promise.” He picked up his own book, but he didn’t read. Not right away. He just sat there, looking at her, at the way her skirt stayed unsmoothed, and felt a excitement he hadn’t felt in years—a feeling that made Wednesdays feel like the start of something new.