Margaret had always been careful. At fifty-eight, she knew the weight of her own desires, the lines of her life carved from choices made and chances missed. Her work as a curator at a local gallery gave her order and routine, yet beneath the poised exterior, a storm of longing often stirred. She knew what she wanted, even if society told her she shouldn’t.
It began at a late afternoon exhibition. Tom, a man in his early sixties, was visiting from out of town. He moved with a quiet authority, subtle but unmistakable, and when he spoke to Margaret about a painting, his eyes lingered just a fraction too long — not on the artwork, but on her. She caught it, of course, though she masked her awareness with a polite smile. Yet inside, a spark ignited.
