There's something peculiar about being a widower in your fifties. The loneliness creeps in quietly, like Edinburgh fog rolling over Arthur's Seat. My academic colleagues would never understand. They see me as the serious professor, publishing papers, attending faculty meetings. They don't see the hunger underneath.
These encounters aren't just about physical release. They're about connection. About being seen. When Margaret passed, something inside me went silent. The women I meet understand that silence. They listen. They don't judge.
Last week, I met Ava. Polish, mid-thirties, with intelligent eyes and a way of moving that suggested she knew exactly who she was. We had tea first. Talked about Kafka, of all things. Her knowledge was surprising. Most would assume her profession precludes intellectual depth. They'd be wrong.
The transaction is clear. Money changes hands. But what happens after isn't mechanical. It's almost tender. Almost human. I'm acutely aware how that sounds. How desperate. But desperation takes many forms in late middle age.
I'll never tell my colleagues. Never tell my grown children. This remains my private geography. My secret Edinburgh.