Frank hated grocery shopping.
Sixty-four, retired, and widowed for seven years, he only went because the pantry was empty and he was tired of frozen dinners.
He didn’t expect to see her there.
1. The First Brush
She was standing by the produce section, holding a single avocado in her hand like she was testing its secrets. Marianne — fifty-nine, newly divorced, lived two streets over.
They’d met once at a neighbor’s barbecue, shared a brief chat about gardening, but hadn’t spoken since.
Today, though, she noticed him first.
“Frank,” she said, with a small smile. “You still cooking for one?”
He grinned. “Trying to. Failing miserably.”
She laughed — soft, throaty, not loud enough for anyone else to notice.
And then it happened.
When she stepped closer to hand him a different avocado, her elbow brushed his arm. Light. Barely there. But not casual.
Frank felt it like static — heat under skin that hadn’t felt touched in too long.
2. The Slow Burn
They walked the aisles together. Talking, laughing, comparing ridiculous cereal prices.
But her body language said more than her words.
Every so often, Marianne leaned close to check something on the shelf, her shoulder almost grazing his chest. Her perfume — something floral, faint but warm — lingered in the tiny space between them.
When she bent slightly to grab a can from the bottom shelf, her hip brushed his leg — not enough to apologize for, but enough to notice.
Frank’s chest tightened.
He told himself it was nothing.
He didn’t believe it.
3. The Parking Lot Pause
By the time they reached the checkout, he was certain she could hear his heart pounding.
Outside, the summer sun was hot and blinding, cicadas buzzing in the trees. Marianne stopped by her car, balancing her grocery bag on her hip.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “I’ve got too much salmon for one person.”
Frank swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“You like wine?”
He nodded.
“Good,” she said, sliding on her sunglasses. “Come by around seven.”
4. Inside Her Kitchen
Marianne’s kitchen smelled like lemon and rosemary. A bottle of chilled white wine sat open on the counter, two glasses already waiting.
Frank stood awkwardly near the door, hands shoved into his pockets, trying not to stare at how her dress hugged her curves when she reached for a pan.
Then she turned, handed him a glass, and their fingers touched.
Just a touch.
But the world slowed.
Her nails grazed his skin — deliberate, soft, lingering.
Neither of them said anything.
5. That Second Brush
She leaned past him to grab a cutting board, her elbow grazing his chest this time, slower, firmer.
This wasn’t casual.
Not anymore.
Frank caught her gaze. Her pupils widened just slightly, breath hitching in the quiet kitchen.
She didn’t move away.
“Marianne,” he said, voice lower than he intended.
“Yes?”
“You keep… brushing against me.”
She smiled, a secret curve of her lips. “Do I?”
6. The Moment Everything Shifted
She reached for the wine again, and this time, when her elbow touched his arm, he didn’t stay still.
Frank’s hand slid along the counter, resting lightly on her wrist — testing, waiting, ready to pull away.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t stop him.
Didn’t even breathe for a second.
And then she turned her palm, letting his fingers lace with hers, just enough to make the air in the room feel heavier.
The quiet stretched.
The salmon sizzled.
Her breath warmed his neck when she leaned closer and whispered:
“You’re not imagining it.”
7. No More Pretending
Dinner barely happened. The salmon stayed warm on the stove while they sat too close at the small kitchen table, glasses half-drained.
Every touch after that was slower, heavier, more deliberate — like both of them had been waiting for years without knowing it.
Frank didn’t remember leaving her kitchen that night. He only remembered the weight of her hand resting on his chest, the quiet rasp of her voice when she said, almost teasing, almost daring:
“Now you know… some touches aren’t accidents.”