In theory, both of them had given up long ago. On love, that is. For Irma, it was a result of one too many heartbreaks and disappointments. For Larry, it was the death of his wife, Reese, who he felt was the love of his life (even though he knew Reese didn’t feel the same way about him). And so, for years now, each individual, who had no knowledge of one another until this fortuitous day, had wandered the same exact stretch of Paris sidewalk, but never at the exact same time so as to be struck by lightning. Or to experience a coup de foudre, if you will. But on this day, all of that changed. Stars aligned, heavens parted, the Fates smiled…and a number of other clichés occurred to ensure that, at long last, Irma and Larry would be at the same exact place at the same exact time. Not only that, but really see one another as they approached the same point on the sidewalk.

And, as if manipulated by some invisible force, neither one of them could seem to take a step past each other without somebody breaking the silence. What’s more, in true “old school” form, it had to be Larry (a.k.a. the man in the scenario) to break that silence. Also in the true old school form, it had to be Larry saying something ultra-cheesy and hyper-sexual as he decided to open with the line, “I know I haven’t seen you on this block before. I would remember gams like those—and I don’t remember anything anymore.”

Needless to say, Irma was somewhat off-put by the sentiment, but, at the same time, intrigued. After all, it had been so long since a man of any sort had paid her some attention. And, in its way, being paid that kind of attention was like relearning a language you hadn’t practiced or engaged with in ages. But Irma quickly recalled that it didn’t matter what you said back, so long as some degree of interest was shown. And, to her own surprise, she showed it. Maybe she was harder up for that kind of affection than she had previously realized. So it was that she “entertained” Larry’s flirtation—not so much with words, but more like “gestures.” The batting of her eyelashes (not that he could really see well enough to notice), the touching of his arm (that, he noticed) and her gregarious laughter (loud enough for him to hear) at his gross remarks.

And so, by the end of their run-in, the two had made arrangements to meet later that day (for an “early bird” special, as it were) After all, at their age, they hardly had time to wait to “play it coy.” Why pretend otherwise? In fact, Irma was the one bold enough to suggest that Larry come over to her abode prior to the outing so that they might “lubricate” first—not with a drink or “otherwise,” but with the cough syrup Larry had mentioned he couldn’t find anywhere in Paris anymore.

When the subject of this special cough syrup had come up while they were chatting it up on the sidewalk (for Larry had gotten into a fit of coughing while trying to play it “suave”), Irma knew immediately what he was talking about. She had even just stockpiled some for herself when her granddaughter, Angeline, had come over from Boston for a two-week visit. The toll for her stay? Bringing Irma as much of this breed of cough syrup as she could possibly stuff into her luggage. And oh, how young Angeline (who was fifty, which was “spring chicken” age as far as eighty-one-year-old Irma was concerned) delivered on that toll. That recently acquired surplus was part of what made Irma feel generous enough to want to share her supply with Larry, figuring a swig or two of it might also somehow make him more “virile”—if for no other reason than it might loosen him up enough to further boost his confidence.

Then again, Larry already seemed plenty confident enough. Irma just hoped he had “the goods” to back it up. But why would that be the case? Irma reminded herself. Men with big dicks didn’t usually have trouble finding a “lady friend.” That term Irma despised about as much as “girlfriend” (which was too puerile for someone in her demographic, but it also didn’t mean she wanted to be referred to as a “lady friend” either). So why would Larry allude to his “woman drought” if he was anything to write home about down below? And though Irma scolded herself for acting as if, “at her age,” she should hope for anything more than “companionship” from a man, she still couldn’t stop herself from getting her hopes up about Larry.

This was why she didn’t want to endure the rigmarole of actually going to dinner with him. Because if she did find herself growing emotionally attached, it would stand to reason that she would also want to “consummate” that attachment by, well, attaching herself (or rather, her vag) to him…literally. So, again, Irma reminded herself that, at her “advanced stage” in life, she ought to just go for broke—say what she meant, do what she felt. And, in that instant, after both of them had downed a bit of cough syrup, she was emboldened. She took matters into her own hands and kissed him. His reaction was, expectedly, surprise. But also expectedly, immediate reciprocation. Codgers never turn down the possibility for sex. They’re worse than teenage boys. That much Irma was well aware of.

And yet, despite all their “necking,” as people of her generation had once called it, it seemed no amount of “hanky panky” could get Larry to take his pants off, even though she could distinctly feel the bulge that was forming. Over thirty minutes had passed like this, and still nothing. Irma resigned herself to leaving it at a makeout session before suggesting that maybe they ought to head out for dinner.

Larry was quick to agree, practically running out of her apartment to oblige. And when their next few “sessions” went on in much the same way—going nowhere except around in saliva-laden circles—Irma finally demanded, “Okay, what gives? Are you ever gonna seal this deal or not?” Larry looked into her eyes forlornly and said, as he glanced down at his pants, “Oh Irma, there’s a part of me that truly wants to…”

Irma arched her left brow. “And the other part?”

Larry sighed. “That part, my dear, is one that I’m afraid is loyal only to Reese.”

Irma rolled her eyes. “Reese, Reese, Reese. I’m so goddamn sick of this bitch and she’s dead as a doornail.”

Larry looked instantly appalled. “How dare you speak of my wife that way?!”

Irma chortled. “She’s not really your wife anymore, is she? And from what you’ve told me, it’s obvious she was cheating on you with this guy you said was her first flame. That’s who she really wanted to be with. It’s so blatant.”

That was the straw that broke Larry’s back. As in, he genuinely broke his back as he tried, in a livid huff, to get up rapidly and then, somehow, careened and twirled in such a way as to land on the bottom of his spine with a thunderous thud onto the metal border of Irma’s glass-top coffee table. Although Irma was still irritated that he wouldn’t put out, she called an ambulance to take his useless body away.

Christ, Irma thought, now I’ll have to make sure I never see him on that same exact sidewalk at that same exact time of day again. Maybe, she reckoned, it wasn’t “the Fates” that had brought them together for the first time that day, but pure dumb (a.k.a. bad) luck. And now, here she was again, disappointed by a man (though at least not heartbroken by one—even if Larry was back-broken by a woman…’s coffee table). Not to mention being forced to return to the proverbial drawing board—which consisted of just one tried-and-true idea: turning on her by now well-worn vibrator. The lone beacon of hope for the single woman attempting to date…at any age.