She sighs dreamily. “Everyone thinks life at my age is knitting, naps, and yelling at the TV. But last night? I felt twenty again. Well… maybe thirty. My knees still know their limits.” The priest mutters, “And you’re not sorry?” “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sweetly, “sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
Ethel grins, recounting the gentlemanly gestures of her young companion, and the priest’s jaw drops further as she plans Pilates, book club, and dinner dates with men half her age.
Finally, she stands, pats the booth, and adds with a wink, “If you hear rumors about me… go ahead and believe them.” With that, Grandma Ethel walks out, leaving a priest who will never look at bingo night—or confession—the same way again.
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