I caught my reflection and laughed — soft curl of hair, a woman’s silhouette I didn’t plan for, and a grin that felt dangerously at home. A week ago I was a 65-year-old man puttering through mornings; now I’m borrowing a life where she’s a 42-year-old mom with a wicked sense of humor. It wasn’t my choice — someone/thing swapped our clocks and keys — but here I am, buttoning a blouse and thinking about how wrong this all started and how deliciously wrong it’s become.

She texts me from the other room, “Would you go out with a 42-year-old mom?” and I type back a tease that’s half truth, half dare. Standing in her skin I find new little pleasures: slipping into heels, a cigarette of bravado (only figuratively), the way strangers glance a second longer. I wasn’t looking for this life, but I’m learning to play the part — flirt, smile, send one more video — and leave him wondering if he’d actually say yes. So — would you go out with a 42-year-old mom?