Closing the front door silently behind her she heads out in to the dawn. She’s always loved this time of the day, the thrill of newness, space before the routine.
As she fumbled with the napkin, she gazed again at her blind date. She felt 18 again, butterflies, playing with her hair, hanging on his every word. She was coming alive, like a child before Christmas.
Pulling into her drive later she sees her son staring out the window. Merry Christmas for the last time.