wearing makeup again.
I bought a new dress.
A new perfume.
And most dangerously of all, I started waiting for his messages.
One night Eric wrote:
“I want to see you. Alone.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
I put down my phone.
Robert was sitting just a few feet away from me.
I looked at his gray hair, his tired face, the hands I had held for almost four decades.
And I thought:
No. I’m not going to do this.
That night, I tried one last time.
I moved closer to Robert in bed.
I rested my head against his chest.
I kissed him.
He gently pulled away.
“Linda, please. I’m really tired tonight.”
Something inside me broke.
Two days later, I was standing inside a hotel elevator.
I was wearing a dark dress.
Underneath it was the same red lingerie my husband
had barely noticed.
My hands were trembling when I reached Eric’s room.
I nearly turned around.
Then the door opened.
Eric looked at me for several long seconds.
“Wow…”
Just one word.
But suddenly, I felt like a woman again.
I could still have left.
I should have left.
But I didn’t.
When he kissed me, I stopped thinking about Robert.
I stopped thinking about my age.
I stopped thinking about what morning would bring.
For those few hours, I wanted to forget everything.
The night was passionate, reckless, almost overwhelming for a woman who had spent years forgetting what it felt like to be wanted.
I laughed more than I had in months.
Eric kept telling me I was beautiful.
“Stop,” I whispered, almost embarrassed.
“Why?” he asked. “Because your husband forgot to tell you?”
Those words hurt.
But at the same time, they pulled me even closer
