You were 42. Pretty old. You fell in love once, but it only lasted a couple years before divorce. You hadn't really found anyone. Until you meet that cute little boy at the store getting on the tips of his toes to grab cumin on the top shelf of the seasoning isle.

Patrick was a sweetheart. He was 21, he had big blue eyes, and pretty brown hair, and dorky glasses, and he cared so much about everything and could rant about music for hours. You fell for him, and he fell for you. Despite the fact you could be his parent.

When people saw you and him in public, they would ask if he was your nephew. Or maybe cousin, son, never boyfriend. His cheeks always burned when people asked and found out the truth. His nose would turn red and he'd look down. You'd laugh and tell them. And then get the inevitable dirty, dirty looks.

You two were at a nice restaurant. A date night. He was mindlessly twirling a ring and looking up at you with a small smile, an empty glass of wine in front of him.

"You sure I can't pay? You know I can afford it."