Finding love once more.

I had been married to the most wonderful woman a man could ever wish for or hope to find. We had raised two children, one of each and had six grandchildren and four greatgrandchildren. Ours had been a happy, for the most part, partnership sharing in the highs and lows of life. But sadly, after a visit to the doctor and subsequent blood tests, it was confirmed that Jen had bowel cancer, inoperable and terminal. Hers was mercifully, a short battle before succumbing to that most dreadful of diseases. I thought my life was over. Rattling around in our apartment and wondering what to do with myself. I kept the place clean, did the laundry and shopped for one, all with the feeling that, perhaps, she would come back one day, and I didn’t want things to be any less than perfect.

And then the dog died. I thought he was attached to me, but it was Jen he pined for. His was a quiet death, just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He was old, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. His pining bothered me somewhat, he whined and kept his nose pointed at the door, waiting for his mistress to reappear. It was pitiful.

I was bereft of any company and started to become hermit like, venturing out only to play golf once a week. Shopping was done on-line with a home delivery. I didn’t sleep well, often not even going to bed, just sat with my feet up on the lazyboy and watching mindless television. It was a slow descent into oblivion, one sure to bring about my demise. Would that have mattered and, did I care? After all, fifty-three years together forged a strong bond and a lifelong commitment. Essential organs of a lifelong commitment had been removed, leaving me an empty shell.

We live, lived in a gated block of apartments, built at the turn of the twentieth century, originally as alms houses by a philanthropic Lord something or another. The external of the block is grade two listed insomuch as, nothing could be changed or altered in any way. Each of the thirty-one individual entrance doors were painted the same insipid green colour which had to be mixed especially when ever needing repainting. The original RAL colour long out of production. Much of the Victorian architecture remained. Carved Cherubs adorned the front door portico, carved in wood with some fancy scroll work. A clocktower is situated above, what had once been, a ball room but had later been converted to flats. Even the rainwater down pipes were cast iron and impossible to replace. A communal garden with a two-hundred-meter lawn, kept nicely by the landlord, sported apple trees, shrubs and a garden of flowering bushes. All in all, we loved the place and had lived there for nigh on thirty years. We knew most of our neighbours by their first name and maintained at least a nodding acquaintance with them all. We, as residents, had created a WhatsApp group to discuss or notify each other of events. So, it was no surprise that many of them visited to offer condolences, at least for a short while. Then we, as a couple, were relegated to memory.

So, after more than fifty years, I was on my own. I could fend for myself, but it was nothing more than an existence.

Until.

The doorbell chimed. Terry, a woman who lived at number 25 was waiting at my threshold. Terry, or Theresa, had been a friend to Jen in a casual way. They often chatted, swapped stories and could laugh with each other. I wouldn’t have called her a good friend, only a fellow neighbour who was quite nice.

Terry had been a bit of a wild one in her youth but now, approaching forty, had calmed down a little. The all-night parties had ceased but her love of drum and bass music continued, loudly at times. The steady stream of men, from all corners had dried up too. None had lasted for more than a few weeks. She was now training kids in the noble art of boxing to keep them off the streets and perhaps, learn a little self-discipline. In her training, she had shed more than a stone in weight, losing the puppy fat and now looked trim and fighting fit, even if on the stocky side. At five foot three with a pleasant face and short brown hair, Terry was okay to look at and now, having lost some weight, looked even better. She could never be called pretty, her face quite plain but her personality carried her through. I had always admired her tits when she sunbathed in a bikini on the back lawn and had, on two occasions, seen her in all her naked glory. Pointy breasts that seemed not to need help in staying pointy and proud and a large black bush hiding her modesty. In my defence, in both instances, I was walking my dog out for his morning ablutions and just happened to glance through her open window. Fortunately, Terry didn’t see me, and both were no more than a fleeting glimpse.

“Hi Rob.” She was dressed in something I vaguely remembered. A blue skirt and a matching boob tube that did little to supress those magnificent breasts.

“I just thought I would come over to see how you are, see if you are okay. I haven’t seen you for months.”

I replied with my customary, “Hello Terry, how are you?” And then thought I should invite her in. Stepping back from the door, Terry passed me and climbed the stair to my first-floor apartment.

While Terry checked out the place. I asked her if she would like a drink, tea, coffee or something else. She declined.

“I was searching through my wardrobe and came across this.” She waved her hand expansively over the skirt and top. “Jen made it for me a long time ago. I don’t think I have ever worn it.”

Suddenly, the memory of Jen, fretting over and working on the dress slammed into my mind. Unbidden, a tear fell from my eye followed by a single sob. Jen had been a first-class dressmaker who once worked as a theatrical costumier. The loss of Jen was still very raw, even after a year since her passing. Little moments like this often caught me out and the pain of loss renewed. I guess my reaction was all too apparent, Terry was suddenly hugging me in a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive Terry, it just caught me by surprise.” I extricated myself from her encircling arms and went into the kitchen. More as a sanctuary than to get a glass of water.

“I’m having a fortieth birthday party and wanted to invite you, we have been friends for something like twenty years, and I thought it would be nice.” She had followed me and stood in the kitchen doorway.

I turned away from the sink to look at her and declined the invitation, not feeling like socialising any time soon. The sun was beaming through the living room window behind her, throwing light from the back of Terry. I realised that, in this light, the dress and top were virtually see-through. I might be old, but the sight of a woman’s body still evoked interest and yes, a little voyeuristic pleasure, although my libido had long since waned. I hadn’t had sex in at least ten years or more, just the occasional wank in the toilet.

I was able to see those wonderful tits with dark aureola’s pointing at me and that dark bush, clearly visible. I tried not to notice, tried to ignore the fact that the dress and top were all she had on. I tried, honestly, I tried. But being a man, my eyes betrayed me. She must have noticed my gaze. Terry stepped back into the living room, denying me any further glimpse of her wonderful body.

In an effort to normalise things I asked her when the party was to take place.

Terry stayed for an hour or so, chatting and regaling me with her exploits with the boxing kids. It seemed it was going very well.

Eventually, it was time for her to leave and go back to her apartment. She kissed my cheek while giving me another hug. Her breasts pushing into my ribs. It was all I could do not to touch them. Somehow, I managed to control my hands and keep them from just a little touch.

I promised I would think about going to the party and we said our goodbyes.

Did I dream about her that night? Did I ever and, as dreams go, wild things were imagined and for the first time in a very long time, I got an erection. Wow!

_____________________________________________ The party was a success, I guess. Perhaps fifty or so turned up and consumed copious amounts to booze and other recreational substances. Feeling like a fish out of water amongst so many, much younger people than I, sobriety seemed like a good idea. Not seemly for the olds to get rip roaring drunk or spun out on coke.

I stayed to help her clean up once her guests had eventually departed. The music was turned off, thankfully. I’m too old for the noise they seemed to enjoy and even dance to. Other than rhythm, I could find nothing that sparked an interest in it. Repetitive chords, no lyrics to speak of and a synthetic bass drum just doesn’t do it for me.

After an hour or so, the place was back to its normal chaos. She wasn’t the tidiest person on the planet. Terry flopped down on a settee with a sigh. “I’m getting too old.” She commented and I laughed.