Last weekend, I was at a big birthday party in Manchester when a handsome ghost from my past sidled up to me.
'I haven't seen you for more than a decade,' he said, a naughty sparkle in his eye. I could tell he thought I looked good; I caught the vibe, the lingering look, that spark of sexual chemistry, palpable on both sides.
I was wearing a floor-length dress that clung to my body in all the right places, my lips painted red, my lashes coated in mascara. I knew I looked good. I felt good. As a 42-year-old woman, it's easy to feel invisible sometimes – but I felt far from it in this moment.
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