leaned forward, ears cocked like directional antennas.
“The old-fashioned way, on Match.com.” Lesley’s voice was lighthearted and bright, but then she softened it. “I wasn’t expecting this, you know. I was married for twenty-six years. I knew that I had been loved and that I had loved so deeply, so after he died, I felt like, that’s fine, if that’s all I’m going to have, then I’ve had it. Some people don’t even have that.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” Dawn said firmly. “Anything I get from here is a plus.”
“But after I went through this for a couple years,” Lesleycontinued, “I thought, hell, I have so much to give away. To waste it, to never be in love again …”
I had to admire Lesley’s nerve to even consider jumping into the deep end again after the shock of her husband’s suicide. The anxiety was there on her face, but there was elation, too. “I’m telling you, girls, I was in the desert for a couple of years, and I’d forgotten how wonderful it was to have somebody hold my hand. The first time it happened I thought I was going to die! I thought, am I twelve?”
“Yes!” Tara said. “Twelve years old. I know what you mean. Some friends offered to fix me up with somebody. Nothing happened, but I was … sick … to … my … stomach.”
Now that we had gravitated to the subject of men, I could see there was no hope of me bringing up anything else until dessert. I saw faces lighting up all around the table as everyone absorbed what Lesley was saying. It’s okay to think this way. It’s okay to
feel
this way. It’s okay to want love again and to act on that desire. That it was Lesley, who had suffered such a brutal shock, who could find the nerve to invite a new man into her life made it seem tantalizingly possible. I felt pulses quicken around our tight little circle. Dating again—after many years of marriage followed by one or two more of grief-imposed celibacy—it had all the scary, forbidden thrill of that first kiss in adolescence. It occurred to me at that moment how much widowhood reminded me of adolescence: a time of uncertainty, of transformation, of trying on new identities, of wondering what it would be like if the cute boy in algebra class asked you out, or more.
Tara was on the same wavelength. “I have to say, honestly … I haven’t been with another man … for thirty-two years. I was twenty-two when I met David.”
“I promise you,” Lesley said, eyebrows high. “It still works.”
“But … it has to be serendipitous,” Tara said.
“I love that word—
serendipitous
,” said Dawn.
“But you have to try,” Lesley advised them sternly. “You have to get back on the bus no matter what.”
“I’m happy to get on the bus. I just don’t know if I want …” Tara paused longer than usual, “a relationship.”
“Then you just need to bonk and look for something later,” said Lesley. “But bonk in the meantime. You haven’t had it in a while.”
“I’d be delighted to … bonk,” Tara said with exaggerated dignity. “But I would need to find … a bonkee.”
“Or a bonk
-er
,” said Lesley.
“If it’s good,” said Dawn, “you’ll switch positions after a while.”
Marcia looked askance, but the rest of us shrieked with laughter. When Tara found an opening, she tamped down the frivolity by interjecting a thoughtful note.
“Talking to all of you, I realize,” she said, “there is this interesting thing … about our situation. We can be free to explore … and relive our twenties again, but have the experience of being … older.”
Denise passed out cookies for dessert, padding around the table barefoot, as she had told me she would. Things had loosened up all right, far more than I could have predicted. I surely hadn’t expected to find bonking on the agenda, in whatever position, within the first couple hours of our acquaintance. But sex, I recognized, was something widows couldn’t talk
“The old-fashioned way, on Match.com.” Lesley’s voice was lighthearted and bright, but then she softened it. “I wasn’t expecting this, you know. I was married for twenty-six years. I knew that I had been loved and that I had loved so deeply, so after he died, I felt like, that’s fine, if that’s all I’m going to have, then I’ve had it. Some people don’t even have that.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” Dawn said firmly. “Anything I get from here is a plus.”
“But after I went through this for a couple years,” Lesleycontinued, “I thought, hell, I have so much to give away. To waste it, to never be in love again …”
I had to admire Lesley’s nerve to even consider jumping into the deep end again after the shock of her husband’s suicide. The anxiety was there on her face, but there was elation, too. “I’m telling you, girls, I was in the desert for a couple of years, and I’d forgotten how wonderful it was to have somebody hold my hand. The first time it happened I thought I was going to die! I thought, am I twelve?”
“Yes!” Tara said. “Twelve years old. I know what you mean. Some friends offered to fix me up with somebody. Nothing happened, but I was … sick … to … my … stomach.”
Now that we had gravitated to the subject of men, I could see there was no hope of me bringing up anything else until dessert. I saw faces lighting up all around the table as everyone absorbed what Lesley was saying. It’s okay to think this way. It’s okay to
feel
this way. It’s okay to want love again and to act on that desire. That it was Lesley, who had suffered such a brutal shock, who could find the nerve to invite a new man into her life made it seem tantalizingly possible. I felt pulses quicken around our tight little circle. Dating again—after many years of marriage followed by one or two more of grief-imposed celibacy—it had all the scary, forbidden thrill of that first kiss in adolescence. It occurred to me at that moment how much widowhood reminded me of adolescence: a time of uncertainty, of transformation, of trying on new identities, of wondering what it would be like if the cute boy in algebra class asked you out, or more.
Tara was on the same wavelength. “I have to say, honestly … I haven’t been with another man … for thirty-two years. I was twenty-two when I met David.”
“I promise you,” Lesley said, eyebrows high. “It still works.”
“But … it has to be serendipitous,” Tara said.
“I love that word—
serendipitous
,” said Dawn.
“But you have to try,” Lesley advised them sternly. “You have to get back on the bus no matter what.”
“I’m happy to get on the bus. I just don’t know if I want …” Tara paused longer than usual, “a relationship.”
“Then you just need to bonk and look for something later,” said Lesley. “But bonk in the meantime. You haven’t had it in a while.”
“I’d be delighted to … bonk,” Tara said with exaggerated dignity. “But I would need to find … a bonkee.”
“Or a bonk
-er
,” said Lesley.
“If it’s good,” said Dawn, “you’ll switch positions after a while.”
Marcia looked askance, but the rest of us shrieked with laughter. When Tara found an opening, she tamped down the frivolity by interjecting a thoughtful note.
“Talking to all of you, I realize,” she said, “there is this interesting thing … about our situation. We can be free to explore … and relive our twenties again, but have the experience of being … older.”
Denise passed out cookies for dessert, padding around the table barefoot, as she had told me she would. Things had loosened up all right, far more than I could have predicted. I surely hadn’t expected to find bonking on the agenda, in whatever position, within the first couple hours of our acquaintance. But sex, I recognized, was something widows couldn’t talk
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