She ran her fingers through her hair. The long, artistic fingers played a tune against the strands. He was twenty minutes late and she was nervous. She hadn’t been on a date in years. “Just be yourself,” her friends had advised. “You’re beautiful,” her mother had said. But she felt like something was wrong with her. “Who dates at 40?” The question taunted her. Her thoughts were interrupted by a fifty-year-old gorgeous man who had specks of grey in his hair. His smile told her that her mother had been right.