He yanks my arm, pulling me toward him, as if I would have just stood there and let the car plow into me.

Instinct is fickle.

Still, I smile and thank the stranger. His eyes sparkle when he speaks, and I admire whatever it is he has kept intact within himself, a quiet resilience that lets the light shine through, even at his age. I remind myself I can’t be much younger.

I don’t pay attention to men anymore. But now and then, I find joy in the simplicity of admiration.

Love is fickle.