Sunset Days
Microfiction
“Harriet?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Remember when we’d go dancing at the Silver Saloon Ballroom on Friday nights and get giddy after having too many martinis?”
“You know I do.” Harriet smiles and looks down at the paper-thin skin of her hands and sandy brown age spots. She turns her hands over and looks at the lines running deeply through her palms like intricate rivers and lakes.
“Bob?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you remember the time we saw the palm reader at the carnival?”
“You know I do.” Bob looks at his knobby knees sticking out from his Bermuda shorts. He sees age spots on the top of his feet and white hair springing from his toes.
“We were only seventeen. She said we’d marry within a year. And, be married for fifty years or more.”
“She was right.”
“She was right.”
Harriet and Bob pause rocking for a moment — long enough to reach towards each other and gently hold hands.
They watch cars drive by and birds frolic in trees, enjoying their sunset days, together.
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