Helena adjusted her pearl earrings and applied her red lipstick with precision. It had been years since she had dressed up like this, with a mix of excitement and anticipation pulsing under her skin. She looked in the mirror and saw a 62-year-old woman, confident, with well-kept silver hair and eyes that still sparkled.
Outside, the night was warm, filled with promise. She walked down the stairs of her building and found Marcos waiting by the car—a man she had known in her youth but whom fate had brought back into her life decades later. He opened the door for her, and Helena smiled. There was something wonderfully new about this, as if she were rediscovering a part of herself that had been dormant.
At the restaurant, they talked over sips of wine and laughter. They spoke about the past, about the paths that had separated them, but more importantly, about the present. Marcos gently placed his hand over hers on the table.
— You’re still beautiful, Helena — he said, without hesitation.
She felt the warmth of his words spread through her—not because she needed validation, but because it was good to remember that desire wasn’t lost with time. On the contrary, it only transformed, gaining depth, richness, and intensity.
Later, as they walked side by side under the golden glow of the streetlights, Helena felt the breeze against her skin and Marcos’s touch sliding to her waist. She didn’t pull away. There was no rush, but there was no fear either.
That night wasn’t just a reunion with a love from the past. It was a reunion with herself, with the certainty that the flame of desire didn’t fade with the years—it only needed to be rekindled. And Helena was willing to keep it burning.
