Selfie

And then he sent a photo of himself, showing the effects of months of self control and dedicated gyming, and her jaw swung open of its own accord. He was now chiselled, muscular and completely alluring, this friend from long ago where there had always been something of a spark. She touched the screen of the phone, where the photo smiled beguilingly at her. Then came that familiar dampness, not between her legs where desire gnawed at her, but rather damp sadness rolling down her cheeks. His physical transformation removed him even further from the reach of her ‘one day’ hopes.

His message following a few moments after the photo: “no response?”

She wiped her tears. “You look amazing”.

“Thanks. Would love to see a picture of you too.”

“Sure, maybe tomorrow. I’m in bed with the kids – don’t want to wake them.”

A photo of her self. Her large soft frame so comfortable for children to snuggle into and fall asleep. Her body so well accustomed to biscuits and left-overs. Her ‘no-childcare-so-I-can’t-go-to-gym’ body. It would have to be a fully clothed photo, with gentle lighting, a good angle. Oh Lord, was it possible to get a good angle with a selfie? Her arm was only so long.

- fictitious scenario gleaned from conversations with friends who are daring to date in their forties