Harold always thought women slowed down after a certain age. That was before he met Linda.
Linda was sixty-eight, divorced, and completely unapologetic about what she wanted. She was tall, silver-haired, and had a laugh that carried across a room like a promise you couldn’t ignore. They met at a Sunday wine tasting, and from the very first smile, Harold felt something shift.
“Menopause changes you,” she’d said casually that afternoon, swirling her glass. “You stop caring what anyone thinks. You stop pretending.”
He didn’t know then what she really meant.
But he was about to.
Later that evening, she invited him back to her place—“for just one more glass.” Harold said yes, though his voice came out lower than he expected.
Linda’s house smelled faintly of vanilla and something warmer, like amberwood. Soft jazz floated from a speaker in the corner. She slipped off her cardigan as she walked toward the kitchen, the thin straps of her silk top sliding against smooth, pale skin.
Harold tried not to stare. He failed.
She caught him. And she smiled. Slowly.
“Relax,” she said, handing him a glass of cabernet. “I like being looked at.”
She settled next to him on the couch, close enough that their thighs touched. It was subtle at first, but when Harold shifted slightly, she leaned in closer—not shy, not hesitant, bold.
“Linda…” he started, but his throat felt dry.
She tilted her head, her silver hair brushing his shoulder. “Menopause takes away a lot of things,” she whispered, “but shame isn’t one of them. I don’t waste time anymore.”
Her fingers brushed his hand, feather-light, deliberate.
Slow motion.
Harold felt the roughness of her fingertips tracing the back of his palm. His breath caught. She noticed. Her lips parted just slightly, and she held his gaze, unblinking, letting the silence stretch until it burned.
“You’re nervous,” she teased softly.
“A little,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to be.” She leaned closer, so close that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I know what I want now. And I’m not afraid to ask for it.”
Her hand slid to his knee, her nails grazing the fabric of his slacks, inch by inch. Harold’s pulse pounded in his ears. Every tiny movement felt amplified—the brush of her thigh against his, the scent of her perfume, the soft rasp of her voice.
She paused, her lips hovering near his ear. “Do you know what’s funny about getting older?” she whispered.
“What?”
“You stop waiting.”
There was no hesitation after that.
She shifted, turning toward him fully, one knee tucked beneath her, her body leaning into his. Her fingertips traced the edge of his jaw, slow and deliberate, before sliding down to the collar of his shirt.
Harold’s hand came up instinctively, resting on her waist. He felt her muscles tighten beneath his palm, not from retreat, but from anticipation. Her eyes locked on his—steady, knowing, hungry.
And then she kissed him.
Not shy. Not tentative.
Bold.
Afterward, they sat tangled on the couch, breathing hard, the soft jazz still humming in the background. Linda’s head rested on his shoulder, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest.
“You were right,” Harold murmured. “You don’t pretend anymore.”
She laughed quietly, low and warm. “Baby,” she said, turning her face to meet his eyes, “pretending is for the young. At my age? I want. And I take.”
Harold smiled, his hand tightening around hers.
For the first time in years, he felt alive.