My four-inch heels made me impossible to miss beside the restaurant window. I thought Richard wanted me to feel beautiful on my first date in 12 years. Then a black SUV stopped, two men got out, and he dragged me toward the kitchen. I couldn’t tell whether he was saving me or leading me into a trap.
Richard checked his watch for the third time, then looked past my shoulder toward the restaurant window.
He was clearly nervous.
I just couldn’t tell whether it was because of me or something outside.
He was clearly nervous.
“Are you expecting someone, Richie?”
His fingers paused against the watchband. “No. I’m enjoying the evening.”
“You seem more interested in the street than your dinner.”
He gave me a quick smile and reached for his water.
“Are you expecting someone, Richie?”
The ice had melted, but he still stirred it with the straw.
Something about the way he kept watching the street bothered me.
I blamed it on first-date nerves.
At 74, after 12 years without romance, I was nervous too.
Something about the way he kept watching the street bothered me.
Besides, Richard had seemed different.
Most men noticed my height before they noticed anything else.
I had been six feet eight since I was 19, which meant I had heard every basketball joke and every question about the weather “up there.”
Richard had seemed different.
My husband, Thomas, had been five feet ten and entirely unimpressed by the difference.
When we danced, he rested his cheek against my shoulder and claimed I had the best view of his thinning hair.
We had 41 years together.
My husband, Thomas, had been five feet ten.
After he died, I assumed that part of my life had ended with him.
My granddaughter disagreed.
“Grandma, you need to meet people,” she announced one Sunday, taking my phone before I could object.
I assumed that part of my life had ended with him.
“I meet people at the grocery store, dear,” I said. “The butcher gave me a free chicken last month.”
“Geez! I’m thinking of someone who might buy you dinner.”
Twenty minutes later, I had a dating profile.
Marilyn, 74. Loves detective novels, gardening, and men who don’t ask whether she plays basketball.
“I meet people at the grocery store, dear.”
She insisted on listing my height.
I hesitated.
“Why frighten them before they meet me?”
“Anyone frightened by you isn’t worth meeting, Grandma.”
She insisted on listing my height.
***
Three days later, I matched with Richard, a 76-year-old widower who stood five feet five.
His first message asked whether I preferred solving a mystery before the detective or being surprised.
“Surprised,” I wrote, “provided the author hasn’t cheated.”
For two weeks, we traded messages.
I matched with Richard, a 76-year-old widower.
“Did I tell you the neighborhood cat has begun sleeping beneath my hydrangeas?”
“No. That’s nice!” I’d replied.
He remembered small things.
When I mentioned my roses were struggling, he asked about them days later.
He remembered small things.
When I told him about Thomas, he didn’t offer advice about moving on.
He simply said he missed his wife too.
Then he invited me to dinner.
The night before our date, a peculiar message appeared.
He missed his wife.
“Would you mind wearing your tallest heels?”
I thought it was weird.
I sent a reply immediately.
“Richie, I’m already six foot eight. In heels, I’ll be over seven feet tall.”
“Would you mind wearing your tallest heels?”
“Please, Marilyn. It’s important to me.”
I almost canceled.
Men before Thomas had asked me to sit for photographs or wear flats around their friends.
Richard was the first to request more height.
I almost canceled.
Perhaps he liked it.
Perhaps he wanted me to feel beautiful.
At the back of my closet, I found the navy four-inch heels I had worn to my granddaughter’s wedding.
I thought they’d go well with the navy dress I planned to wear.
Perhaps he liked it.
I sent Richard a picture.
“All right, Richie. But don’t complain if I block the restaurant lighting.”
He replied with three smiling emojis.
***
The following evening, my granddaughter stood in my bedroom doorway while I fastened the ankle straps.
I sent Richard a picture.
“You look gorgeous, Grandma.”
“I look qualified to dust ceiling fans.”
She took a photograph anyway.
In it, I was smiling more broadly than I had realized.
“You look gorgeous, Grandma.”
The navy dress had been Thomas’s favorite, though I had not worn it since his funeral.
Choosing it did not feel like replacing him.
It felt like carrying the life we had shared into a room I had been afraid to enter alone.
I had not worn it since his funeral.
***
Richard waited beneath the restaurant’s brass awning.
He was smaller than his profile pictures suggested, with silver hair carefully combed and a red pocket square that sat slightly crooked.
He looked up at me and smiled so broadly that I laughed.
He was smaller than his profile pictures suggested.
“Perfect!” he murmured.
“You certainly got your wish, Richie.”
He kissed my hand.
Then his gaze slipped past me toward the traffic.
“Perfect!”
Inside, the hostess offered us a quiet table near the fireplace.
Richard pointed toward the front instead.
