Secret to Marriage

They sit in silence on the farmhouse porch. It’s nothing, he hopes. 

Earlier as his wife lay sleeping, toes twitching, nightgown transparent from sweat, he’d turned away, denying her protracted slumber meant anything. He brushed teeth, brewed coffee, ignoring his knotted gut.

“You’re quiet,” he says, admonishing himself for waiting until hope has ballooned

inside his aching chest.

Her palms rest on the Adirondack chair, preparing. She’s beautiful, undiscouraged by 74 years. “I’ve decided to become a giraffe,” she states.

But we haven’t even hung the hammock yet.

Clinging is futile. He must muster courage.

I can do this. What’s one more go-round?

Yet something twists. He’s tired. Hungry.

He wants ham on rye. He winces at his predictability, but there it is. He likes Dijon. He likes to shit on the toilet. He likes being an old man.

How many more years do we have?

Her head cocks against the cedar backrest. She gazes up, previewing her new

dominion. It isn’t the first time she’s uprooted expectations. This is how they’ve worked

things … maintained freshness, stoked passion.

As newlyweds, she signed them up for a workshop: “Live the Animated Life!” As

they walked to the train that bitter morning, he’d smacked his gum. It was Saturday. He

liked sleeping in. Through the scarf held to her nose, she’d hissed, “I hate it when you

smack.” He’d snapped, “What do you want from me?” Inside a steamy, glass-ceilinged

conservatory surrounded by flora, their flamingo instructor taught them they were snakes, coiled and defensive. They’d slithered home and promptly shed.

Since that verdant day, they’d been tortoises, eagles, woolly-bear caterpillars, foxes. It helped avert his midlife crisis. She’d breezed through menopause.

But the last few years, they’d settled down. Knitting was pleasant, as was reading. It was nice to sit in cars and eat with forks. He liked tinkering with his terrarium.

Her neck elongates. Her gaze is farther away … eyes larger, sadder. Soon, her jaw will protrude.

One last kiss before?

Too late. She’s already removed her glasses, stands barefoot in the grass.

And if I don’t go along? I could straddle her neck?

He’s grateful they made love last night. When she’d arched her back, howling, he’d recalled the year they were coyotes. Never still. Nothing unturned, untried.

The sun is high. He squints. 

She’s really getting up there, casting a longer and longer shadow.

What now?