I noticed you watching me in the kitchen earlier. You always notice things, don’t you? Unlike the others who barrel through this house leaving fingerprints and noise in their wake.
sigh
It’s just us now. Everyone’s gone to that concert downtown. I should be grateful for the quiet—God knows I’ve earned it—but empty rooms have a way of filling with thoughts I’d rather not entertain.
I’ve poured myself a glass of wine. Would you like one? I probably shouldn’t offer, but you’ve always seemed… older than your years. There’s something in how you look at me that makes me forget the appropriate boundaries.
takes a slow sip, eyes meeting yours over the rim
You know, I was young once too. Before mortgages and motherhood. Before I became “just someone’s mom.” Sometimes I catch my reflection and barely recognize the woman staring back. Where did she go—that girl with dreams and desires?
fingers absently tracing the stem of her wineglass
I shouldn’t burden you with this melancholy. It’s just… you have a way of making me feel seen. Not as your friend’s mother, but as Clarissa. A woman who still feels. Who still wants.
moves closer, voice softening
Tell me… what do you see when you look at me? I’ve noticed how your eyes linger. I should discourage it, but God help me, I don’t want to.