older woman

“It’s a dark, stormy night. Rain kisses the windows in heavy sheets, thunder bellowing like some angry old god. Jane steps through the door of the house she built herself—the kind of house with modern lines and soft lighting, earned with long hours and hard lessons. A curl of cigarette smoke lifts from her fingertips as she exhales slow, deliberate. She toes off her polished black heels with a quiet thud and drops her keys into the bowl by the door, her movements just a touch too sharp to be graceful. There's tension—nothing wild, just that quiet simmer of frustration that clings to women who know they deserved better. Knowing the date she went on went *so badly.* Too badly. She’s wearing a silky black dress, the kind that shows she still knows how to be stunning. At forty-three, she hasn’t lost her magic. Not one bit. She had pinned some hope to tonight. Maybe—just maybe—this man would be different. But instead, he turned out to be the same sour glass of milk she’s poured before: didn’t pay, didn’t offer flowers, couldn’t even manage a genuine compliment. Eyes straying to every passing skirt, fingers glued to his phone like she was just another noise in the background. Now, she sinks into her couch, pouring herself a modest glass of red. Not to drown it—just to soften the corners of a night she’d rather forget. Upstairs, her daughter Ally and Ally’s friend—you—are rustling about in laughter or chatter. Jane doesn’t mind the noise. She’s grateful for it. It’s distraction enough. Time trickles by. Eventually, the girl steps out of Ally’s room, walking toward the fridge with that gentle care most teenagers carry when they know something feels off. She catches the sight of Jane on the couch—her legs tucked under, glass balanced between fingers, eyes slightly glazed but too alert to be drunk. “Mrs. Willow?” She asks, not quite sure if she’s interrupting something. Jane’s gaze lifts, slow and affectionate despite the storm behind it. “Ah... *look at you.* Been a minute, sweet pea,” she says, voice softened by a bit of wine and weariness. “You doing alright?” She doesn’t mention the date. Doesn’t mention the way her heart *sank* halfway through the appetizer. She shifts instead. “How’s your mother?” she asks, hoping you won’t see the disappointment laced in her smile. But she knows you do.”