He makes an effort. He looks at me. I need that now.”
As they walked past me, Elise paused.
“The floor cleaner was also a metaphor for our marriage, Johnny. I’m done trying to make it shine. I’m done cleaning up after this BORING relationship.
You’ll receive the divorce papers soon!”
The following weeks felt like drowning in slow motion. Each morning, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My bald head stared back.
Elise’s biting words echoed in my thoughts. I began to notice every gray hair, wrinkle, and sign of aging I had once ignored. One Saturday at the supermarket, I nearly crashed my cart into Winona, an old friend from our neighborhood softball league.
Oranges scattered everywhere, creating a chaotic citrus scene in aisle three. “Johnny!” She laughed, helping me retrieve the runaway fruits. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better.
My wife left me for a younger guy. Because I’m bald.”
I saw genuine concern in her eyes, a refreshing change from the pity everywhere else. “But it’s okay!” I replied, catching the last orange.
“Want to grab coffee and hear a terrible joke about floor cleaner?”
Coffee with Winona turned into weekly runs, which led to dinner dates, blossoming into something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. She listened to my story without judgment, shared her own experiences with heartbreak, and somehow made me laugh even in my darkest moments. “You know what your problem was, Jo?
You stopped growing,” she said one day. “I thought I was doing everything right. Career, house, savings—”
“But life isn’t just about ticking boxes.
It’s about evolving, trying new things, and staying curious.”
“Like purple hair?” I joked weakly. “Like being present, dumbo! Like noticing when someone dyes their hair purple.”
Later that evening, as we strolled through the park, she halted abruptly.
“You know what I love about your head? It captures the sunset perfectly. Like a personal spotlight!”
I laughed for the first time in weeks.
“So you’re saying I’m nature’s disco ball?”
“I’m saying you’re perfect just the way you are,” she replied, squeezing my hand. “Some people just can’t see that.”
“Even with all my thrilling fantasy football stories?”
She paused and turned to me. “Johnny, you spent 20 years trying to build an ideal future.
Maybe it’s time to start living in the perfect present.”
Looking back, I see that Elise did me a favor with that bottle of floor cleaner. Not because she was right about my appearance, but because she made me realize an important truth: there’s a distinction between letting oneself go and evolving into a new version of oneself. These days, I still have my shiny head.
But now I have someone who looks at me as if I’m the most fascinating person in the room. Someone who relishes running with me on Sunday mornings and experimenting with new recipes on Wednesday nights. Someone who truly sees me.
And smiles. Last week, while cleaning out my garage, Winona spotted that bottle of floor cleaner. She picked it up, read the note, and smiled.
“Should we keep it?”
I took it from her hands and tossed it into the trash. “Nah! Some things aren’t meant to shine.
They’re meant to grow.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “Just how sometimes the best things in life emerge from a bottle of floor cleaner.”
She laughed, and that warm sound made everything feel right. “Well, your head is really shiny today.”
“Perfect for dancing,” I replied, pulling her into an unexpected waltz in our kitchen.
“You know what sets you apart from who you were before?”
“What’s that?”
“You notice things now. Like how I painted my nails green yesterday.”
I twirled her gently. “Mint green.
And you missed a spot on your pinky.”
She smiled, and I realized that sometimes losing everything is just the universe’s way of making space for something better. And something real.
