A first date after forty-nine years with the love of my life—how does one even begin again? The thought alone felt both daunting and tender, like reopening a long-locked door to a room filled with echoes of what once was. Yet somehow, stepping through it broke the quiet wall of loneliness that had slowly built around my heart.

As Uptown Guy and I sat across from each other, hands wrapped around warm cups of coffee, conversation flowed easily at first—safe topics, polite smiles. We spoke of the miles between our homes, our past careers, the shared experience of loss that now gently was spoken out loud. Beneath his calm, intelligent demeanor, I sensed a kind soul—someone who had also known deep love but lost a portion of it years go to her Alzheimer’s disease with finality one year ago.

The rhythm of talking to a man again felt unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. With women, conversations often dance in circles of empathy and shared emotion. With a man, there’s a directness—curiosity wrapped in quiet observation. And still, the heart of it is the same: we all long to be seen, to tell our story, to have someone listen and say, I understand. After an hour of thoughtful exchange, a light flickered in his eyes. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly. “Would you like to go to lunch?” And just like that, coffee transformed into something more—a true first date.

Turns out he’s a health-conscious man, thoughtful even in his choice of meals, so when he asked about nearby eateries that served salmon, I smiled—there was an excellent option just around the corner. And so, our morning coffee turned into a second meeting, another chance to peel back the layers of conversation and connection. It didn’t take long to realize that Uptown Guy lived in a world of quiet refinement. His late wife came from an impressive family lineage, and together they had moved with ease through an upscale social circle. They dated for six years before marrying—a patient, deliberate love story. Listening to him, I found myself sharing my own: a blind date that led to marriage in only six months. Two very different beginnings, yet both grounded in love and fate. It struck me how each of us carries our own constellation of experience -distinct yet patterned with familiar light. In our seventies, we’ve grown comfortable in our own ways, yet here we were, daring to step beyond them.

Lunch was lovely—unhurried and filled with easy laughter, gentle curiosity, and those small pauses when two people simply see each other. As we walked back to our cars, the afternoon sun lingered with a gentle glow. “Let’s do this again soon,” he said with an easy warmth. I smiled and agreed. A brief kiss on the cheek followed—a polite gesture that somehow felt like the beginning of something much more. Something I hadn’t known I was still capable of wanting.

And then he was gone.

And I was… lost in space. 

Quote of the week: Life is what happens between coffee and wine.