One day, he'll tell her.
He'll tell her how he's admired her from afar for months, how the lines of loneliness etched under her eyes are something they have in common, how beautiful he thinks she is when brown strands stray stubbornly from her ponytail and frame her face perfectly, how he longs to stroke both hair and cheek to determine for himself which is softer.
He'll finally confess how he likes her better without make-up, how the nights they spend talking across neighboring balconies about life and grown children mean more to him than she can ever know, how he adores the way she favors oversized sweatshirts and fuzzy socks, how she's far more beautiful than she can even begin to understand. He'll summon up the nerve to invite her over for dinner and Irish coffee, will suggest they snuggle under a blanket to ward off the chill of lazy evenings, will gently place an arm around her shoulders and watch how she reacts to his touch.
He'll draw her into him if she's willing, will confirm for himself what he somehow already knows-that they fit each other perfectly, that she's the piece that's been missing from his solitary life now that the niece and nephew he raised have moved on and forward, now that his apartment is too quiet and too tidy, now that his bed feels larger and emptier than it ever has in his life.
He'll lean over and kiss her temple, will revel in the mingled scents of honeysuckle and her, will nudge his nose into her cheek, will breathe her name into her ear. Abby-the name that haunts his dreams and teases his romantic hopes. Abby-the woman who is currently sleeping on his chest, whose heartbeat now pulses in time with his own, the woman he prays will not wake until morning so rudely intrudes on their solitude. Abby-the person who is slowly and stealthily stealing his heart from his body even as her empty cup of hot cocoa rests on his coffee table.
He won't wash the mug at first after she leaves. He'll more than likely press his lips to where the last vestiges of her lipstick cling to the brim, will imagine what it's like to actually kiss her, to taste the sweetness of her mouth, to experience the brush of her tongue against his, to have her breath intermingle with his own as something new and beautiful takes root for two people just beginning the second half of their lives.
Somehow middle age seems less daunting if he can experience it with her.
But for now he'll lie here content and warm, savoring the feel of her in his arms, thanking whatever powers that be that her heat went out and she came to him for help, that she agreed to stay in his apartment until her heater is fixed, that she actually leaned into him and slept as I Love Lucy reruns continue to play and cast black and white shadows across the room.
He wonders what it will be like when they're naked, when they've sampled and satisfied each other in ways he hopes she thinks about, too. He ponders how it would be if she just stayed forever, if she shared his bed nightly and his life daily until they were both old and gray, if they spoiled grandchildren while creating new memories, experiencing adventures as parents who have done their job and now are free to fly again.
For that's what he wants, what he dares to hope will come to pass, and he knows he should speak up sooner rather than later. Time is a fickle mistress, and life holds more surprise than predictability. So he'll do it tomorrow, he thinks as his heart speeds in his chest. He'll ask if he can cook her dinner, if she'd like to stay for a movie, if he can make her an Irish coffee while they sit together on his couch and watch the snow that's supposed to blanket the city. He'll summon up the courage needed for such things tomorrow.
But for now, he'll just enjoy this.