Felicity stood nude in front of the full-length mirror.
She didn’t look forty.
Her hair?
Still thick and black.
Felicity inspected her breasts: firm and free of puckers.
She stepped back from the mirror for a last quick take.
Her skin fit perfectly.
Roger watched from the bed.
Mornings were difficult for him, more so recently, with
the burning in his gut that never goes away.
He grimaced and took another swig of his coffee.
“What?” Felicity asked.
“What, what?” replied Roger.
“You made a face.”
“Did I?”
“Don’t be coy darling. Is it me?”
“It’s never you.” Roger said. “It’s me. My stomach hurts.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better–tell me the
truth: you think I’m a hag!”
Roger gestured toward a chair by the bed.
“Have a seat Imelda.”
Felicity sat and smiled, “Bring me my choose.”
Roger hopped up and scurried over to the walk in closet.
Felicity watched him cross the room.
“I like that little droop in your ass.”
“I should have known not to let you see me naked. How
many pairs do want, Imelda?”
“Bring me my dance shoes!” Felicity laughed. “I was giving you
a compliment; you’re a sexy older man.”
“And you are well-preserved; are these the heels you want?”
Roger held up a pair of bright red Christian Louboutin
cha-cha heels.
“Perfect Ferdinand; you may kees my toes.”
“Will you promise to give me a break on the age thing?
“Oh, but Roger, Roger, Roger; I’m having a mid-life crisis: there
are books to buy and surgeons to consult!”
Roger crossed the room, knelt by her feet and said
in a mocking whine: “When I feel old I feel guilty!”
Felicity slipped her feet into her pumps and stood: “That’s
the spirit, darling. You write the book; I’ll buy the shoes.”
<c> Robert Goldstein 1990 -2017 All Rights Reserved
for Christy Birmingham with a change of perspective.
