Ms. Gomez is the only one who goes to the dollar theater every Thursday morning. She always sits in the middle seat of the middle row, nurses her coffee (“two more sugars, there’s a dear,” she says to the counter boy (you’re allowed to call people ‘dear’ when you’re old and supposedly harmless)) and slowly eats her small bag of popcorn.

This has been her routine for the past two years. Except, today, this Thursday, that routine is about to change.

Five minutes before the movie is about to start, someone else walks into the theater. They sit at the very end of the third row (polite of them really, as if they’re trying to not ruin Ms. Gomez’s view). After the film is over with, on her slow way down the stairs, Ms. Gomez stops by aisle three to say hello. You can do that when you’re old, strike up conversation without being embarrassed, especially when the stranger you’re talking with is also old. It’s like a secret old people code.

“Why hello dear,” Ms. Gomez says, “I’ve not seen you in the theater before. Quite an enjoyably film, I thought.”

The other lady smiles at her, “Oh, I hate this film. My husband was the one who liked it; it’s his birthday today, so I’m doing something he would enjoy.”

“Oh, I see! My condolences dear, when did he pass?”

“Ten years ago, now. It’s silly, but I still wear the ring. I was Mrs. Fainworth for thirty-seven years; it’s hard to stop being a Mrs., you know?”

“I never married, actually. I’ve been Ms. Gomez all my life. Well, I suppose when I was below thirty, I was Miss Gomez.”

They snicker a bit.

“Say, would you like to get lunch? They have a sandwich shop here, it’s quite good.”

Over sandwiches, they chat a bit about all the people they knew and how they died (a common theme when you're their age; you know more people who are dead than alive. You have to get comfortable with endings). And of course, the children and grandchildren.

“I have five siblings,” Ms. Gomez says, “well only two are alive now, but they all married and had children who had children, so I have lots of grandchildren to dote on. Well, grand-nieces and nephews I suppose, but they’re all just grandchildren to me.”

“I was never close to my siblings, I’ve never met any of their children,” Mrs. Fainworth says breezily, the way people do when they’ve become so accustomed to pain that they don’t even notice it anymore.

“But I have three children of my own,” Mrs. Fainworth continues, positively gushing, “and my youngest two have children.”

“Lovely. Do you have pictures?”

Mrs. Fainworth pulls out her cell phone (no one pulls out their wallet to show off pictures anymore; probably best, that way you don’t have to display how much money you’ve got). Mrs. Fainworth’s phone is very new, the kind that has a touchscreen, which she navigates very deftly.

“My son upgraded me,” she says, “he tried to show me how to use it, but I told him if I could help build computers in the 60s, then I could figure out a smartphone.”

Ms. Gomez, who never bothered to upgrade from a regular old house phone with a rotary dial, nods encouragingly, “Very impressive, my dear. You’ll have to show me how it all works. I never kept up with the computer.”

“Marvelous things, computers. Did you know I can video call my daughter in Japan? From all the way over here? Truly amazing.”

Then, it becomes routine. Every Thursday morning, Ms. Gomez and Mrs. Fainworth go to the dollar theater and sit in the middle seats in the middle row, and afterwards, have lunch at the sandwich shop. After a few months, they start to hold hands. And as you can be rather bold when you’re old, when they part one Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Fainworth drops a kiss on Ms. Gomez’s cheek.

It continues like that, gestures growing bolder and bigger, until eventually Ms. Gomez is present for those video calls to Japan, takes Mrs. Fainworth to meet her remaining two siblings, and helps celebrate Mr. Fainworth’s birthday every year. It’s not exactly something either of them had imagined, this quiet romance during the sunset of their sparkling lives, but really, you’re never too old for a new beginning.