I was thirty-two years old, I was drowned in debt and only a lost wage away from running out of apartment.
Richard was seventy-three, he was rich, widowed and alone in a way that wealthy people sometimes try to hide behind marble floors, expensive clocks and huge houses.
We met at a charity dinner where I served champagne.
He asked me what he was calling me.
Then he looked at me and asked:
“Have you been standing up all night? They must hurt your feet.”
It was such a simple question.
But no man had been asking me if I was tired for years.
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