The Best Is Yet To Be

Grow old along with me, the best of life is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made.

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Isaac put his hand under Sarah’s elbow to help her up the stairs. She was a little wobblier than usual. She’d insisted on wearing those slinky high heels which made her legs look sexy but, he knew, hurt her feet. And she’d had more to drink than she was used to. So had he.

But what the hell, Isaac thought. It was an occasion. How often does a guy get to celebrate his 45th wedding anniversary? The night had required champagne and dancing and they’d certainly done it up right.

Sarah started to undress as soon as they reached the bedroom, dropping her clothes on the floor, too eager to get to bed to pick them up. She glanced at the bra lying on top of the pile. From this angle you couldn’t see the prosthetic.

When they first became intimate Sarah was self-conscious about one of her breasts being larger than the other. But Isaac said it was fine. He liked variety. He called the smaller one Jr., which he claimed stood for, just right. The other one was Jrp, just right plus.

When she found out she needed a mastectomy to have Jr removed, Sarah considered breast reconstruction so she’d have two large breasts. Isaac said it was her decision, he just wanted her to be well. But there had been complications and by the time she was declared healthy enough for reconstruction Sarah didn’t want anything more to do with hospitals. Isaac never seemed to mind.

Now, as usual, he softly kissed her scar. Then, with a little more pressure, for a little longer, he kissed the other breast. “Good night, jr,” Isaac said. “Good night jrp.” He started to undress.

“Here, let me do that,” Sarah said. “Dress shirt buttons are pretty tiny.” Even with a touch of arthritis her hands were nimbler than his.

She dropped his shirt on the floor near her discarded clothes, and ran her hands over his chest. Isaac’s hair was getting thin on his head, but his chest hair was abundant, a mass of white and brown curls that hid the scar. She kissed that spot, believing her lips could feel his heart beating steadily, the artificial valve doing its job.

“I’m really ready to get into that bed,” said Isaac, pulling down the covers.

“Me too,” said Sarah. “It’s been a long night.”

She reached for a favorite nightgown, the burgundy color cast a rosy glow over her neck.

They knew how to accommodate each other. Both slept on their left sides, his chest pressed against her back, his hand reaching across her body, cupping her breast, his long legs mirroring the Steved of her legs.

“Happy anniversary, babe,” said Isaac. “I love you.”

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” said Sarah. “I love you too.”

They kissed. A long, deep, kiss that kindled memories, promised futures. She arched her back and moved one hand under the pillow. He moved along with her, stretched his neck, shifted one of his legs, still beside her, still touching her. Sarah gave a long, deep sigh. A few seconds later Isaac sighed, equally long, equally deep. Then they were both sound asleep.

By Jean Ende

From: United States