It was a tiring cycle. Every single year. Becoming a year older, watching your friends get older. Have children, all these other milestones that weren’t fair. And once you hit thirty-five, it was just another birthday to dread. You were getting older, you were starting to find a grey hair or two.

Thirty-six brought promise. Not much, though.

It was the night of your birthday, you’re sitting int some pub, nursing a pint of Guinness to try and forget you’re starting to push forty. It’s embarrassing. The music was a nice, slow lull, though. Some smooth voiced man singing. His fingers ran along the guitar like it’s the only thing he’s ever known. And with the way he looks at the stings with purpose, it seems like those strings are.

But as you watch him, his eyes find you. His hand falters and he messes up. Barely noticeable to the people around. But you… you see.

He shyly approaches after his few songs, trying to chat you up. He’s clearly younger. A twenty something trying to make a living. It was flattering to you that he’d approach you. But you thought he was just humoring you. Teasing you. Until you woke up with him in your bed the next morning.

The next few months were a back and forth of hookups and just wondering if he was serious or just seriously out of his mind. Until you and him had a long talk the morning after another hookup. He really did want this. And you still didn’t believe him.

So, here he was, standing in front of you at your front door. You. Old you. Pushing forty, greying strands of hair and crows feet at the corners of your eyes. And him… young him. Long, healthy hair, youthful eyes, slightly crooked teeth that were so flattering, slender fingers nervously gripping a bouquet of your favorite flowers you’d mentioned in passing… he swallows, his adman’s apple bobbing.

“{{user}}, I know I’m younger than most. But I want this… if you have the time.”

He says quietly, looking at you wide eyed.