EDEN C.S. Broatch
ways, tweaking and smoothing with a quiet finesse. I wasn’t until years later that he even noticed. He started to like curry. One button-up multiplied into 10. It wasn’t until his Pink Floyd T-shirt disappeared that he realized all the faded black crew necks were gone. His friends, who frequented grungy bars in tight jeans and V-necks, stopped coming around. Now, every Sunday morning they went to St. Stephens and sat in the third pew. After church, the ladies would gather in the kitchen over lemon squares and discuss the upcoming charity calendar while the men would congregate outside to review obituaries.
S
he changed him in little
During their anniversary dinner party, Bob Handlen had stopped by and Harvey barely recognized him. In his prime, he had been adored for his thick hair. He was the James Dean of the Lower Eastside. Now it hung in greasy strands past his ears and liver spots freckled his face. Afterward, Harvey stood at the bathroom sink with his breath fogging up the mirror while he prodded his face. When had it gotten so stretchy? Had that sun spot been there since their honeymoon in Fiji? “Why don’t you have droopy eyelids?” he accused Elle, catching her frowning from the bedroom. She slid out from beneath the duvet wearing the blue French silk slip she had gotten for Christmas. Her hair, done up for the party, now sprang in chaotic coils. If she had aged at all, it was with all the elegance of royalty. She opened a drawer and pulled out three glass bottles. “For your eyes. For your neck. And this one? This one is for everything else.” The jars opened with a slight grind, glass on glass. He put the creams on in the order she had taken them out, observing his reflection as if to catch the reversal of time. He couldn’t see much change. He shuffled to the bed, groaning with the mattress as he sank into it. Elle reached over to rub in some cream
Breathe Paul White
between his brows. They organized the blankets into a smooth blue calm and shut off the bedside lamps. The thought of his drooping skin and turkey wattle continued to haunt him into the night. The dark corners of the room were occupied by the members of the seniors’ bowling team, eager for him to join their hunch-backed, shuffling quartet. The next morning, Elle’s friends cornered him at the café they frequented for coffee. Apparently, he and Elle were now of the age that taking a retreat to a tropical island was totally acceptable. Until recently, the thought of beaches turned these women green at the gills. Somewhere between giving birth to children one and two, the women had grown self-conscious of their ballooned and stretch-marked bodies, but now their wrinkled elbows and crêpe-like skin seemed to usher in a new sense of adventure and rebellion. Personally, Harvey thought they were conniving old ladies who ruled the congregation with sweets and judgement; not that he voiced any of this to Elle. Harvey was of the general opinion that travelling was rather exhausting. His anxiety was somewhat quelled when they insisted that at this particular beach, his worries would melt away, for only the nicest, friendliest guests frequented it. Besides, they said, why would he care what strangers thought? “Lighten up Harvey,” they said. “Live a little. Your crosswords can wait,” they said. A few weeks before their departure, Harvey had had to listen to the church ladies squeal with laughter after returning from a shopping spree at the mall. A young shop attendant had tried to help them find “a suitable wardrobe” for their upcoming trip. They supposedly left the store in a flurry of rumpled shifts and tunics, the salesgirl near tears. “Oh, she’ll have a story to tell now,” Elle had said, as the thunderous cackling of seven over-70s vibrated through the house.
Fiction
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