Theres something about getting older that nobody tells you. The silence. Not just the quiet round the house after Margaret passed but the deep silence of skin not being touched. Whole weeks go by and the only human contact is a handshake at mass or me mam giving me a wee hug when I visit.
I never thought Id be the type to see an escort. All those years working in the civil service in Derry you get proper conditioned about what respectable folk do. But respectable dont keep you warm at night.
Last month I met Sarah. Shes younger than my daughter would be if shed lived. Professional. Kind. She didnt look at me like Im just some old fella desperate for connection. We talked first. Had tea. Then she touched me like I was something precious not something broken.
The Catholic guilt never really leaves you. Even now I can hear my dead wifes voice saying what would people think. But people dont think about us old ones. They dont see us. Sarah saw me. Whole body saw me.
Maybe thats what matters in the end. Being seen. Being touched. Not judged.