My name is Sarah Miller, 40 years old.
My youth gradually faded away in unfinished love affairs – some betrayed me, others saw me as a temporary stop.
Whenever love broke up, my mom looked at me and sighed: “Sarah, maybe it’s time to stop chasing perfection. James next door is a good man. He may walk with a limp, but he has a kind heart.”
Our neighbor James Parker is five years older than me.
He was disabled in his right leg after a car ac:cident at the age of 17.
James lives with his oldmother in a small wooden house in the town of Burlington, Vermont, and works as an electronics and computer repairman.
He is quiet, a bit clumsy, but always smiles gently.
It is rumored that James has liked me for many years, yet he just didn’t dare say it.
I used to think, at 40 years old, what else can I expect?
Maybe, having a gentle person to lean on is better than being lonely.
Therefore, on a rainy and windy autumn afternoon, I nodded in agreement.
No wedding dress, no fancy party – just some close friends and a simple dinner.
I lay still in my new bedroom, listening to the rain falling on the porch roof, my heart filled with confusion.
James limped in, holding a glass of water.
“Here,” he said softly. “Drink this, you must be tired.”
His voice was gentle like the breath of the night wind.
He pulled up the blanket, turned off the light and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The silence was suffocating.
I closed my eyes, my heart pounding, and waited for something between fear and curiosity.
A moment later, he spoke softly, his voice trembling:
“You can sleep, Sarah. I won’t touch you. Not until you’re ready.”
In the darkness, I noticed him lying on his side, his back turned, keeping a great distance – as if he was afraid of hurting me just by touching me.
My heart suddenly softened.
I little expected that the man I only considered “my last choice” would treat me with such respect.
