Freckle

The mark on my hand could be a dark freckle, certainly not a liver spot. They say the hands are the first to go but mine are smooth, so I was surprised to be crushed by the attractive man on the tube.

He smiled at me and I felt a fleeting flirtatious glow. As he stood he said, “Here, sit down, love.”

And I did because I felt tired and wanted to cry.

I am now neither a “babe” nor a “sweetheart” but “love” in the granny kind way.

The mark on the back of my hand began to sting.