Nerd King and Prom Queen
by Charles C. Cole
I know I’m expected to whine about growing old, but my life in the senior residential home hasn’t been soul-suckingly awful. Unlike some of my neighbors, I still have complete use of my “faculties” and I don’t require mechanical devices to help me get down the long halls. And, a major perk, I’m not on any diet restrictions, so pretty much eat whatever I want.
All my life I was an introvert. No big parties at my house. Rarely invited to co-workers’ homes. I watched a lot of TV, to be honest, while sitting beside my equally introverted wife, Leandra. Life was exactly what I’d wished for at the time: I’d always wanted someone I could have all to myself.
When my honey passed, living alone was not for me. A former classmate of my now-adult kids was plowing my driveway one stormy day. We got to talking about his parents and how, contrary to horror stories, contemporary senior centers weren’t anything like psychiatric hospitals from the 1950s.
One thing led to another. I now amble with a flock of old fogies, many of whom I see daily for both breakfast and dinner. And one pretty, semi-familiar lady whose presence has called to mind my misspent youth and choices unchosen. I’d seen her from afar, across a crowded room. Finally alone, reading in the community library, she catches me staring.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Sorry to intrude. Are you, by any chance, Nancy Means?”
She smiles politely. “I was, then I got married. You are?”
“Clifford Rose.”
“From Windham High School, class of 1976?”
“You remember me?”
“You got old, Cliffy.”
“You haven’t changed,” I say.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible liar?”
“I had a crush on you once. But I was the new kid and you were the popular kid.”
“Just like here,” she jokes, making sure I notice she’s sitting by herself. “You were the smart kid. You were the funny kid. King of the nerds. I noticed you, but I was seeing someone, someone who later became my husband.”
“Is he here?”
“No, we parted company. We had a good run, a long life. Have to pay for it eventually, I suppose.”
A resident who acts as volunteer librarian gives us a stern look and disapproving cough from her desk.
“I should go,” I say, retreating. “Someone’s taking her job seriously.”
“Let me drop these books at my place. We can go to the Healing Garden if you like,” with emphasis for the authority figure in the room, “where we can talk as loud as we want. So long as we stay close to the fountain.”
We walk to her apartment, too busy thinking to speak (at least I am). She’s as far from my unit as one can get. “I see we still live in different neighborhoods,” I say. She shakes her head. I wait in the hall for her to do her business.
At the fountain, we sit on the edge with our pantlegs rolled up and dangle our feet in the cold water. She looks into the blue sky and sighs: “I still love being out in the sun. I shouldn’t, with my history of melanoma. Living on the edge.”
“It’s amazing, bumping into you after all these years.”
“I had a crush on you, too. Always had a thing for the eccentric boys. Laurel — You remember Laurel Persette? — she said those were the ones who were more adventurous in the lovemaking department.”
“No pressure,” I say.
“None at all. I’m more interested in a good book nowadays. But I do like company. And the comfort of familiar faces.”
“Sounds lovely,” I agree.
People will gossip even when there’s nothing to gossip about. “Getting physical” during this time means occasionally holding hands. Once I’m so bold as to remove a loose eyelash from her cheek, in public, and let her blow it off my palm, to make a wish.
A few weeks later, at our usual spot at the fountain, though we’ve been reminded by management to keep our feet out of the water lest we catch cold (or some such), we sit back against back, each reading.
“Do you ever want more?” she suddenly asks. “From us.”
“Do you?”
“Not really. Maybe sometimes.”
“Close your eyes. Picture us together. The only light is a candle on the kitchen counter. The room is chilly. We strip from either side of the bed and jump in — to keep warm.”
“To keep warm.”
“We snuggle close.”
“To keep warm,” she repeats, teasing.
“I want you to imagine what happens next. Don’t rush. Take your time. Don’t say anything out loud. Make your own movie.”
A moment of silence, then: “Oh, my!”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“It’s quite a memorable picture.”
I close my eyes to join in the fun. Her skin is soft, warm and inviting. Her arms reach around me, her fingers pressing into my back. She pulls me close, then closer.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“A long time ago, when I hurt my back. Don’t speak.”
Her breathing gets heavy. She reaches behind her for my hand and pushes her entire being against mine. “Stop. I can’t. Please.”
“I’m not doing anything. It’s your movie. Pace yourself.”
“Easy. For you. To say,” she mumbles through gritted teeth. “Crap. Damn. Nope.”
A splash. I open my eyes. She’s dropped her book into the fountain. The spell is broken. “I’ll get it. We’ll dry it off.” I wade after it. My pantlegs are not pushed up as I wasn’t expecting to go for a swim. I climb out and make a puddle at my feet. I’m wet to the thighs.
“It’s ruined,” she says.
“We’ll buy another copy.”
“Look at you. Let’s get you inside and dry you off. I’ve got just the towels.”
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You’re better than okay, from what I’ve seen,” she says. She takes my hand and pulls me along toward her room.
Copyright © 2022 by Charles C. Cole
