He took a step toward me, his face close enough that I could smell the peppermint on his breath.
“You’re fifty, Elena. People our age don’t need to be seen. They need to be dignified.”
“And you think this is dishonorable?”
“I think it’s a desperate attempt to hold on to something you lost twenty years ago,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“Everyone in this dining hall will be wondering what you’re trying to prove,” he said, approaching me along the narrow sidewalk. “At your age, wearing something so bright. It’s embarrassing.”
Two people sitting at a small table on the restaurant’s fenced patio turned their heads in our direction. I didn’t recognize them, but the older woman adjusted her reading glasses to get a better look at us, standing by a low boxwood hedge.
“Today marks my fifty-first year,” I said, keeping my arms at my sides. “I wanted to wear something other than black or navy.”
