“Darryl honey, do you think I’ll end up one of those old ladies with a wardrobe full of muumuus and fat pants?” his wife asked from the kitchen.
Darryl’s tired eyes stayed with the newspaper spread across the table. His hands, dry as sandpaper and tough as leather, wrapped around a cup of day old coffee. He shifted a bit in his chair trying to get comfortable in his Carhart overalls. A button on the back always dug into his ass whenever he sat in that chair.
“Honey, do you think I’ll be one of those old ladies with twenty-two cats in the house and a dozen mangy dogs tearin’ up the backyard?” she asked.
Darryl’s eyebrows bent a bit as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. There was an itch on the top of his right pinkie toe, but his steel-toed boots always took so goddamned long to put back on that he bit his lip a little and tried to ignore it or will it away.
“Honey, do you think I’ll be any good at bingo when I’m old?” she asked.
He flipped the sports section over and started in on the international news. It was the smallest part of the paper, which he attributed to why people in this town knew so little about what happened outside it. He learned more from listening to Jim and Rich bitch at each other every day at the Dunkin Donuts where they all went on their lunch break.
“Darryl dear, do you think I’ll die alone?” she asked.
“I think you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” he said.
On his way out, he kissed his wife goodbye just as he had every day for the past 15 years. With his left hand, he held her close a little longer than was necessary, looked into her eyes, and said, “Just foolin’. I love you, baby.”
