Fools Rush In

“Wise men say…”

The drag of soft crimson over thinning lips. A gentle brush of pigment, giving light to cataract-pale eyes.

Finally, after such a long time… Date night.

“Only fools rush in…”

The record player warbled from the other room, just a touch unsteady, a few seconds too slow. That was okay. The song had slowed down just like they had; it seemed to fit.

“But I can’t help…”

For years, or so it seemed, she had asked him for a date night. Just a little romance. She was older, yes, but not dead… not yet.

She understood that they led busy lives. It was hard to muster the energy to do anything special when all you wanted to do was drop into bed at the end of the day. But as the years pulled her closer into the ground — each day, dragging her flesh a little more southwards — she found herself longing more and more for the bubbly effervescence of their young love.

She needed to be reminded that she was seen. That she was still desired. That she wasn’t yet just a pile of bones, a sack of sagging skin and achy joints good only for warming half the bed at night.

“Falling in love, with you.”

She could still remember how she felt the first time she saw him. Such a strong, sturdy figure, and beautifully long, sculpted hands. Artist’s hands, she often told him. Pianist’s hands. And there were his eyes, those two honeyed amber orbs twinkling at her, always on the verge of laughter.

He didn’t laugh so much anymore. But sometimes, if she looked carefully, she could catch that old familiar shine.

“Shall I stay…?”

She slipped the straps of her old silk dress over her shoulders. Violet was always his favorite color for her; he said it brought out her eyes. She was pleased to find it still fit.

“Would it be a sin…?”

One last look in the mirror, and then she was ready. She stepped out into the living room, following the trail of rose petals. Those had been his idea. He had grumped a little at the notion of a fancy dinner, even one inside their own home, but once he brainstormed a few ideas he really had gotten into it.

“If I…”

Their tiny kitchen table sat illuminated by gentle candlelight, covered by her best lace tablecloth. A modest dinner for two sat artfully displayed on two plates. It was difficult to make rice and boiled chicken look fancy, but somehow he managed.

Roses dripped all around the floor; the warm room felt rich with their scent.

And through it all she could see him. As handsome as ever; time had been kinder on his part, she thought. The same even, square jaw. The same thick hair, always immaculately coiffed. The same lips and nose and perfect rosy cheeks.

“Can’t… help….”

She sat down, blushing a little at his rapt attention. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. She reached out to brush her fingers along his; his skin was always so cool. But that’s why he had her, to warm him up.

“I’m so glad we could do this,” she said. Her voice creaked, no longer the musical trill it once was. But that was okay.

He stared at her, amber eyes alight with their old twinkle, lips curled up in an ever-present smile. Always so cheerful, so optimistic, even when the bustle and trouble of life got in the way.

Off in the corner, the record player shuddered, jumping over scratches. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, so long as they still had each other.

She reached out to clink her glass against his. The pill in the bottom had almost finished dissolving.

A perfect night, just the two of them.

Forever.

“Falling in love… with… you.”

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