Waiting For Autumn

She watched him through the kitchen window. He was pulling weeds in the backyard with a can of Old Style beside him. The can sweated in the heat. So did he.

The ground was still wet from the morning dew. Or, maybe it was the rain from the night before. Mud caked on his boots, his knees were dirty too. He took a swig of beer. It was never too early.

As she looked on, she poured a cup of coffee; added a little Baileys to it. She then lit a cigarette and sat down at the table and began cutting coupons. She could hear him singing outside. A song about leaving it all behind and taking off on a motorcycle.

The neighbors must think we’re crazy, she whispered. They must think all kinds of things about us, she pondered. And, they probably did. A whole community of retirees would walk by their house everyday. Wondering about the new couple that just moved in.

He came inside through the kitchen door. She told him not to touch anything until he was cleaned off. The old man went straight to the bathroom where he continued to sing.

The water ran for a good fifteen minutes. And, she no longer heard him singing. The older lady walked down the hall calling his name. There was no response. Slowly she opened the bathroom door. He stood there looking into the mirror. Silent. The sink was almost filled. She reached across him and turned the faucets off. He just continued looking in the mirror.

We’re getting old dear, he whispered. And it scares me, he began to cry. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Kissed him on the cheek. Told him she was in it for the long haul. Until the very end.

Some loves die, she said. Others go on and on. Could I buy you a drink?, they both laughed. And waited for autumn.

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