I’m a guy with a lot—big estate, fast cars, piles of cash—but it never made me happy. At sixty-one, I’d given up on finding someone real, someone who didn’t care about my bank account. Then I saw her, a woman digging through trash on the side of the road. She looked tired but strong, like she was fighting to keep going. I don’t know why, but I pulled over and offered her a place to stay—my garage, which is more like a cozy little hideout. Her name was Lexi, and she wasn’t sure about me at first. I told her there were no strings, just a roof for a night. She said okay, and that’s how it started.
We’d eat together sometimes, and I liked how she didn’t let life’s punches keep her down. She told me over spaghetti one night that she used to be an artist until her husband ran off with someone younger and left her with nothing. I could see the hurt in her eyes, and it hit me hard because I knew what it was like to feel alone. Lexi’s sharp jokes and tough spirit started to brighten my days. But one day, I barged into the garage to grab something and froze. There were paintings everywhere—ugly, scary ones of me with chains around my neck, blood on my face, even one where I was dead. My heart sank. I’d let her in, and this was what she thought of me? I slipped out quietly, but it haunted me. At dinner, I asked her about it. She looked like she’d been caught stealing, admitting the paintings were her way of venting her pain—not at me, but at how unfair everything felt. I tried to understand, but I couldn’t get past it. I told her to go.
I dropped her at a shelter with some money the next day. She didn’t argue, just took it and left. For weeks, I missed her, even with those creepy paintings stuck in my head. Then a package came—a new painting, soft and kind, showing me in a way I didn’t expect. Her number was scribbled on a note inside. I called her, nervous but hopeful. She picked up, and we talked like old friends. She’d gotten a job and was saving for a place of her own. I said I was sorry for how things ended, and she said she was too. I asked her to dinner, and she agreed. Now I’m counting the days until we sit down together again, wondering if this could be the start of something new.
