I ended up in the bar of a small downtown hotel.
The lights were warm, the music was soft, and people laughed quietly over glasses of wine.
I sat in a corner and ordered a glass of red wine.
At first, I felt ridiculous.
At sixty-two, I spent the night with a man twenty-eight years younger than me. I did it because I was tired of being invisible—and because, for once, I wanted passion. But when I woke up alone in the hotel room the next morning, I discovered something terrifying.
