She poured herself two fingers of bourbon—not because she needed it, but because the glass felt good in her hand—and sat in the middle of that giant sofa, her blonde hair catching the low light.
Sophia watched her guests. There was Marianne, a recent divorcée who had started coming six months ago and now laughed like she’d forgotten she could. There was Carl, the retired carpenter, who had shown up to the first party grumbling about his bad hip and now helped Sophia move furniture before every event. There was her own daughter, Lena, who had once rolled her eyes at her mother’s “big life” but now brought friends and stayed until the last candle guttered out. big ass mature blonde
Tonight, it was storytelling. A professional from the city, a woman named Elise whose voice sounded like honey poured over gravel. She stood at the head of the Long Table, lights dimmed, candles flickering, and told a tale about a grandmother who outlived three husbands and learned to ride a motorcycle at seventy-three. She poured herself two fingers of bourbon—not because