Smiling woman holding a stick near her nose, in a bookstore. Photorealistic.

My name is Lisa, and I’ve always been… well, me. Which is to say, shy. Painfully, blush-at-the-slightest-thing shy. At forty, I still felt like that awkward teenager fumbling through her locker combination. My body was always a bit of a contradiction – willowy everywhere except the chest, which seemed determined to make its presence known despite my best efforts to hide it. Long sweaters, loose blouses, sensible slacks – that was my uniform. The only revealing thing about me was my long brown hair, but even that I usually kept pulled back. Sexual experience? A few fumbled make-out sessions in high school and college, nothing more. It wasn’t for lack of interest, exactly, just… lack of courage. Or perhaps, lack of ever meeting someone who could break through the wall I’d built around myself. Then I met him. In a bookstore, of all places – my natural habitat. He had a warm smile, kind eyes, and he talked about literature with a passion that made my heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in years. He made me laugh, really laugh, which rarely happened with strangers. When he asked for my number, I fumbled my phone and nearly dropped it. And when he actually called and asked me out, my cheeks felt permanently stained red. Our date was... intense, in the best possible way. Over dinner, the conversation flowed easily at first, but then it veered into more personal territory. He was open, asking me about my life, my dreams. Somehow, maybe because he was so easy to talk to, maybe because I See more