Feeling Like a Dry Crust of Bread

She felt like a crust of old bread, the heel, forgotten, dried out, useless except maybe to ducks. Each day seemed a dull repetition of the last. Her life was boring, and she felt powerless to change it.

One day it rained, and her thoughts were as dismal as the gray clouds that hung low, menacing in the sky. She decided to get a coffee to at least warm her insides on her soggy trek home.

He held the door for her, but her eyes on her muddy shoes, she never saw the interest, the concern in his.

He waited in line behind her, and when she pulled her worn little purse from its habitual reposing place in her pocket, he stepped to the counter and placed a five dollar bill in the barrista's hand.

Her eyes fastened on his face for the first time, and she was flustered and embarrassed.

"Thanks you," she said breathlessly.

He took her damp hand in his and massaged it gently til it lay warm in his. Afterwards, she could never remember how he had gotten hold of her hand.

Every day after that, she saw him near the coffee shop, sometimes on the sidewalk in front of it, and sometimes inside.

She discovered his name was James, he lived nearby, and he had been widowed three years earlier.

They fell into the habit of meeting every afternoon at the coffee shop. The booth in the corner became "theirs."

Little by little, the hollow cheeks resumed a rosy hue and a spark of interest replaced the dull lackluster in her eyes. Slowly, she began to feel as if maybe, just maybe, life was more than dull dreariness. Even damp, rainy days took on their own soft glow while sunny days became brilliant again.

He had a deep chuckle, and he heard, finally, her low, musical laughter as it bubbled to the surface over something he said.

What made the difference in her life? Why did her outlook change?