Colourful

I felt utterly lonely as I stood at the door of the old age home.

No one was around except a gentleman reading a newspaper. A lonely cup sat in front of him on an Italian coffee table. It was white as his snowy hair, a bit of coffee still left within—like his wizened eyes that now held mischief, “New girl, eh?”

Gallantly, he stood up—though it took him some effort—and took my bags from my wrinkled hands. Smiling, he offered me his arm and walked me indoors, “Join me for a cup of coffee before the other single boys swoop in?”

I blushed as I nodded.

I was sixteen again.