At seventy-four, I never expected a first date to end with a stranger intervening while the man across from me tried to pull me through a restaurant kitchen. Yet that was where my evening with Richard eventually led, and the reason behind his strange behavior would force me to confront insecurities I had carried for more than fifty years.
My name is Marilyn Hughes, and I stand six feet eight inches tall. I reached that height at nineteen, after spending my teenage years growing so quickly that nearly every stranger felt compelled to comment on my appearance.
People constantly asked about the weather above their heads or whether I played basketball. I had never been good at basketball, and my one attempt to join the school team ended with a broken wrist after I tripped during practice.
As a young woman, I tried desperately to appear smaller. I slouched, avoided high heels, and endured uncomfortable moments with men who seemed embarrassed to stand beside me.
One boyfriend asked me to sit for a group photograph so he wouldn’t appear short. Another insisted I wear flatter shoes to a wedding, even though I was already wearing flats.
Then, at twenty-six, I met Thomas in the public library. He was twenty-eight and struggling to reach an Agatha Christie novel on the highest shelf, so I retrieved it for him.
Instead of commenting on my height, he asked whether I had read Murder on the Orient Express. When I told him I had read it twice, he grinned and warned me not to reveal the ending.
Thomas was five feet ten inches tall, but our height difference never troubled him. On our third date, he took me dancing and rested his cheek against my shoulder while joking about the excellent view I had of his thinning hair.
We married a year later and shared forty-one wonderful years together. We raised two children, welcomed four grandchildren, and filled our little brick house with detective novels, family photographs, and roses.
Thomas died twelve years ago from a heart attack at seventy. He was sitting in his favorite reading chair with the same Agatha Christie novel I had given him for our first anniversary.
After losing him, I assumed romance had ended for me. I still had my garden, church friends, grandchildren, and books, and I believed those things would be enough.
My twenty-nine-year-old granddaughter Tess disagreed. During a Sunday dinner in February, she borrowed my phone and created an online dating profile before I could stop her.
“Grandma, there are plenty of wonderful older men who would love to take you to dinner.”
She described my interests in detective fiction and gardening, then added that I preferred men who didn’t ask whether I played basketball. When she included my exact height, I protested immediately.
“Why would you tell them I’m six feet eight before they even meet me?”
Tess refused to remove it.
“Because anyone who’s frightened by your height isn’t worth your time.”
Three days later, I received a message from a seventy-six-year-old widower named Richard. He was a retired chemistry teacher, stood five feet five inches tall, and had a friendly smile beneath silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
His first message asked whether I preferred solving mysteries before the detective or being surprised by the ending. For the first time in years, I found myself smiling at a message from a man who seemed interested in my mind rather than my height.
Richard and I exchanged messages every evening for two weeks, gradually discovering how much we had in common. He enjoyed gardening, detective novels, and thoughtful conversations, although he preferred Dorothy Sayers while I remained loyal to Agatha Christie.
He told me about his late wife Joan, who had died of cancer four years earlier, and his daughter Eleanor, who worried constantly about him. He also described an orange neighborhood cat sleeping beneath his hydrangeas, which he had named Inspector Morse.
Richard remembered small details that most people overlooked. When I mentioned insects damaging my climbing Eden roses, he asked several days later whether I had identified the problem and suggested Joan’s old method of collecting Japanese beetles in soapy water.
When I spoke about Thomas, Richard didn’t offer empty reassurance or insist that I should move on. Instead, he admitted that he missed Joan every day and believed grief never truly disappeared, although people gradually learned to build their lives around it.
His understanding moved me deeply, and when he invited me to dinner at Bellamy’s, an Italian restaurant downtown, I accepted. We agreed to meet on Friday evening at seven, and I began looking forward to a date for the first time in twelve years.
The night before dinner, however, Richard sent an unexpected message.
“Marilyn, would you mind wearing your tallest heels?”
I stared at the screen, unsure whether he was joking. At six feet eight inches, I already towered over nearly everyone, and four-inch heels would bring me to seven feet.
“Richie, I’ll practically have to duck through the restaurant doorway.”
His reply came almost immediately.
“Please, Marilyn. It’s important to me.”
I nearly canceled because the request seemed so unusual. Yet after decades of men asking me to slouch, sit down, or wear flatter shoes, Richard was the first person besides Thomas who had actually encouraged me to appear taller.
I wondered whether he genuinely admired my height and wanted me to stop hiding it. That possibility meant more to me than I wanted to admit.
At the back of my closet, I found navy-blue heels with four-inch heels, ankle straps, and silver buckles. I had purchased them for Tess’s wedding two years earlier, wearing them proudly in photographs despite the discomfort they caused afterward.
They matched the navy dress I had chosen for dinner, a knee-length outfit with three-quarter sleeves and a white collar. Thomas had loved that dress, which I originally wore for our fortieth anniversary celebration.
I hadn’t worn it since his funeral, but choosing it again didn’t feel like abandoning his memory. It felt like allowing myself to carry the happiness we had shared into a new experience.
Tess arrived the following evening to help me prepare. When I stood in the heels, she photographed me with my shoulders straight and a smile I hadn’t realized was so genuine.
Richard waited beneath Bellamy’s brass awning, wearing a gray jacket and a slightly crooked red pocket square. When I stepped from Tess’s car, he looked up at my full seven-foot height and smiled broadly.
“Perfect, Marilyn. Absolutely perfect.”
He kissed the back of my hand, making me laugh with unexpected delight. But almost immediately afterward, I noticed him glance toward the street as though he were waiting for something.
Inside, the hostess offered us a quiet table near the fireplace. Richard insisted on sitting beside the large front window instead, explaining that he preferred the view.
I assumed he meant the beautiful city lights, but once we sat down, he began checking his watch and watching passing vehicles. When a black sedan slowed outside, his entire body stiffened until it disappeared around the corner.
I tried to dismiss his behavior as nervousness, although I couldn’t understand why a man enjoying his first date in decades seemed so interested in the street.
