Fiy isn’t old I. “Have you ever liked an older woman?” she asks. “Yes, of course. Who hasn’t?” I say, knowing I am two months older. I wait for her reply, fearing the twenty-something manager at Fashionable Male who wants to do it in a very uncomfortable place. How do I respond to “He’s 53”? He is the neighbor whose yard made soccer balls his own. Or, I picture Woody Allen.
II. I took an online quiz, it said I’d live ‘til 63. I wasn’t disappointed. Age scares the hell out of me. My nightmares are filled with octogenarians on flights for Ft. Myers in August. I dread the day I ask for assistance with overhead luggage. Upon arrival, Deimos and Phobos, sons of Aphrodite, meet me at the airport. Ink-and-cardboard script read: Mr. Vandehey. My bags squeezed in the back of their white 1989 Toyota Camry, they take me to a diner for the Early Bird Special, order ham steaks with decaf, black.
Art by Jessie Carroll