Short Stories

Love At First Sight

Aggie looked it up – the odds of falling in love at her age were one in 57,000.  But – it was love at first sight. So that set her to wondering about those odds – falling in love at her age and it being love at first sight. After a while she decided that rather than task her brain figuring it out, she would be content knowing that it was a very huge improbability. Yes, hugely improbable. In her mind, Aggie decided the odds of it happening must be one million to one.

The indicators were clear. Those arrows of Cupid, piercing her heart. They hurt. She thought it might be gas, caused by the asparagus she had at lunch. But at the same time she was getting those sharp little pains in her heart, she was getting warm feelings over her back and down her legs. She thought this might be a reoccurrence of those hateful menopausal hot flashes, but those had stopped years ago. No, the sharp heart pains, and the warm feelings, along with the way her eyes glazed over when she saw him, convinced her. She was in love. And it was love at first sight.

She knew this was out of the ordinary, especially for her. After all, she’d been a scientist, a research biologist working for Health Canada, and she only worked with facts and figures. Rarely had she dealt with matters of the heart. Her 52-year-long marriage to Harry had little to no romance in the last 40 years. This, according to her research, was not hugely improbable. Rather it was normal. Her research further indicated that couples who spent more than 50 years together became more like roommates.

Aggie wondered if she should talk to Harry about this phenomenon of falling in love at her age. After all, he’d worked with statistics and might have some insight into the matter and perhaps he had similar feelings. She dismissed this idea though as she watched him ponder the daily crossword puzzle, nibbling on the end of his pencil which was now the size of a nubbin.

After exhausting herself, she decided that rather than analyse this phenomenon to death, she would ‘go with the flow’. That was an expression she’d heard a lot back in the sixties, back when everyone her age was yelling about ‘banning the bomb,’ ‘making love and not war,’ and wearing flowers in their hair. She never went with the flow back then. Truth be told, she never really understood what everyone was yelling about. Maybe it was all about just giving in to the feelings. Enjoying the warm feelings on her back and in her legs. Not worrying about having a heart attack when her pulse rose. 

Darn it, she was going with the flow.

“I love you, Jeremy,” she whispered, and kissed her baby grandson’s forehead. 

September 2018