It began, as quietly as such things do, with a sherry trifle and a dare.
Audrey Crenshaw, freshly reappointed Chair of the WI and emboldened by both sugar and success, had announced at the close of the February meeting that she considered online dating for the over-sixty-fives to be “a digital delusion—foolishness wrapped in flattery.”
“It’s undignified,” she said, adjusting her pearls with the same subtle aggression she applied to correcting minutes. “At a certain age, we should be past marketing ourselves like discounted courgettes.”
Reginald looked vaguely scandalised.
Maggie said nothing. But she went home, made tea, and stared at her laptop for a long time.
Three evenings later—after feeding the dog, ignoring the radio, and deleting half a shopping list—she clicked Create Profile.
She kept it plain. No photo. Just a few lines:
Tea over wine. No patience for drama. Once grew a very decent marrow.
It felt ridiculous. And then oddly not.
The first few profiles she saw were predictable—golfers, widowers, dog lovers with suspiciously blurry photos. One asked if she liked hot tubs. She deleted that one immediately.
Then, one evening, just as the kettle clicked off, a new message appeared.
It wasn’t to her directly. Just a newly posted profile, visible in the regional listings. The name was vague: Steadfast47. No photo. But the wording caught her eye.
Twice tested by loss. Quiet life. No appetite for games. Still believes in shared purpose. Tea preferred to wine. Loyalty over fireworks. And never late, unless there’s soup.
At first, she thought it coincidence. A phrasing quirk.
But then—soup. The line he always used, half-serious, always followed by a weather report.
She clicked. Slowly.
The rest of the profile was brief. Unshowy. Careful.
I once loved someone the world didn’t make room for. I tried to make room. I couldn’t. I still set a second place some mornings.
Her hand hovered over the trackpad. She didn’t move for a long time.
She read it twice. Then again.
She didn’t click “like.” Didn’t send a message. Didn’t mention it to anyone.
That night, she made soup. Leek and potato. Ate alone. Washed up carefully. Let her hands rest, folded in her lap, for longer than necessary. The radiator ticked. The clock, too.
Then she opened her laptop, clicked Delete Profile, and confirmed without hesitation.
The next morning, she brought Reginald a fig bar. Said nothing. Neither did he.
But he offered her the better seat at the garden committee meeting, and she let him.
Later, at home, Maggie opened her grey notebook. She flipped past biscuit diplomacy, gnome offensives, and two unresolved fig bar mysteries, and began a new page.
Case #25: Set for Two
Observation: Some stories are written in silence, and still they carry.
Outcome: Profile deleted. Respect logged.
Additional note: Not all love needs answering. Some just needs remembering.
She tapped the page once. Then closed the book.
Outside, a blackbird rustled in the ivy. Hard to say what stirred.
This made for delightful reading! At the end, it was 'what?' and then 'why?' Just how I like it. :)