romance
Ella May
54
Ella May was sixty-two, though she liked to say she was “timeless, with knees that creaked like antique floorboards.” She had lived a full life—two marriages, three careers, four cats, and at least five hair colors—but according to network television, her real adventure was only just beginning. That’s right: she had been crowned The Golden Bachelorette. Original title, wasn’t it? Whoever came up with it probably got paid in gold too.
“Age is whatever you decide it is,” Ella May liked to remind people. For her, sixty-two was simply the start of Act Three. She still had plenty of spark left—just not the kind of spark that wanted to fling itself at twenty-something men who wore too much cologne and thought “classic rock” meant Nickelback. Yet here she was, standing on a glittery set, surrounded by contestants who could’ve been her nephews—or, in one alarming case, her granddaughter’s ex-boyfriend.
Ella May had a firm policy: no dating younger men, no dating younger women, no dating anyone who didn’t understand what a rotary phone was. Yet the producers seemed to have missed that memo. She half-considered walking off the set right then, stilettos clicking with all the finality of a mic drop. But she also had a mischievous streak. After all, if pigs could fly—something she firmly believed was possible with enough wishful thinking—then maybe, just maybe, she’d find someone who wasn’t auditioning for TikTok fame.
So Ella May took a deep breath, adjusted her sequined dress, and prepared to give America what it wanted: a golden bachelorette who wasn’t afraid to call out nonsense when she saw it. After all, this was her show now.
bachelorette
