Growing Old Together

She’s the perfect woman. Beautiful, bright, with a smile that lights a room and a wit that guarantees I laugh out loud every single day of our life together.

And what’s better, I managed at some point along the line to trick her into thinking she can’t do any better than me.

Nobody tell her she can, okay?

I love her.

I want us to grow old together.

Fortunately, we both have a theater background, and know enough people who know enough about stage makeup that we don’t have to wait for that to happen naturally.

Instead, we’re walking down the street, me with a cane, her with a walker, enjoying the looks on our neighbor’s faces as they struggle to figure out where they’ve seen us before.

We look to be about eighty. White hair, deep lines across our faces, a stoop to our slow, shuffling walks.

I’ve got a bit of a hunch, under my shirt. Padding, to simulate the real hunch I’ll have after fifty years of leaning in to kiss her. She’s got a boil on the side of her neck. No reason, she just thought a boil would be hilarious.

We were in the makeup chairs for close to three hours. Totally worth it.

I was going to scream at the passing kids to get off my lawn, but she rightly pointed out that this is us after fifty years of happiness, and I might not have that sort of anger in me.

So instead, we’re taking a slow walk around the block. Her hands on her walker, one of mine on my cane, the other on the small of her back, enjoying a warm, summer day and the prospect of a lifetime together. Happy, and temporarily old, and still very much in love. Enjoying each other’s company and the pained expressions we get as our neighbours pass and try to fit what they see into their worldview.

“Hello, sonny,” she says to one of them as his eyes go wide and he suddenly realizes who we are, “would you like a Werther’s?”

She holds out the caramel to him and he has no idea what to do. He just stares as we walk by, laughing.

I hadn’t known she’d brought some along. She’s not eating sugar and I never much liked them. She must have bought them for this bit, and this bit alone.

Such careful attention to detail.

Christ, I love her.