Not my mistakes.
Me.
We talked for nearly two hours.
About books.
About music.
About dreams we had abandoned.
About places we wanted to visit.
When I finally left the store, I realized something strange.
I had forgotten that I was supposed to feel insecure around someone like her.
Because Eleanor was everything I was not.
She was wealthy.
Educated.
Respected.
Her name was known throughout the city.
But she never once made me feel small.
Instead, she asked questions.
She remembered details.
A week later, she remembered that I hated coffee because it tasted bitter and ordered tea for me before I even arrived at our meeting place.
That was when I realized something.
Eleanor was not interested in impressing people.
She was interested in understanding them.
Months passed.
Our friendship became something neither of us expected.
Then one evening, sitting beneath the lights of her garden, Eleanor took
