My husband Walter never made it an issue. He kissed me each morning, whether I’d shaved or not. Once I nearly skipped a wedding because the hair looked darker than usual. He handed me my coat.
“Holly, the bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody’s hiring you to model lipstick.”
I attended, although I checked my reflection six times.
Walter died nine years earlier. Without him, everyday routines felt painfully different. His uncomplicated affection was something I missed as much as his presence, and I doubted I would ever again feel so completely at ease with another person. I learned to tolerate the empty house but couldn’t face having another man inspect my features and
decide I wasn’t attractive enough. Then my granddaughter created a dating profile for me.
“Grandma, you deserve company.”
She uploaded my picture with a laugh. Three days afterward, an eighty-year-old widower named Arthur contacted me. His opening question concerned whether I completed crosswords in pencil or pen.
“Pen,” I replied. “I’m old enough to live dangerously.”
