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1.
"What a load of bullshit."
Peter shook his head as he approached the couch, resting his hands on its back.
Gigi set down the remote and turned, surprised. "What about? The news?"
"People," Peter said, annoyed. He ran a hand through his hair, then abruptly froze. The last time he'd gotten a haircut, he'd just asked for his usual trim. The barber, a young guy maybe in his thirties with short, neat hair as sharp as his movements, had combed across Peter's scalp… Now Peter remembered the offhand comment: "Can't take too much off, or the gray will show." Maybe to anyone else it was just a normal thing to say about an older guy, but Peter knew he'd been fighting his damn gray hair most of his life.
That was also the time he'd stopped asking them to dye it black.
"What's Elon Musk done to get under your skin now?"
His wife's giggle grated on him. Peter shuffled his way around the couch – left foot step, right foot shuffle-step – until he reached the other end and sank down. Basically, he just bent his knees and let gravity drop his backside onto the cushions.
It was a comfortable little couch, the one they'd chosen – he and Gigi. Partly because it was on sale; partly because it was small. Around five or six years ago, Peter had stopped bothering to see anyone. Yeah, yeah, he'd finally become that crotchety, shut-in old asshole.
Gigi rested her hand on his knee, just to get his attention. That's why the couch was small. It didn't need to hold many people. Just him and his wife was plenty.
"Did you take your meds, babe?"
"Don't know…" he mumbled. Damn it, was he getting Alzheimer's or something?
"Which ones are we talking about?"
His wife patted his leg and stood up knowingly. "Got it. I'll fetch them." Yeah, if you had a wife 22 years younger who loved you, you were lucky.
After he swallowed a handful of pills – maybe some vitamins mixed in there too – they sat back on the couch watching the news for a while. Gigi's leg pressed against his, feeling strangely secure. Peter relaxed a little. He set his mug down on the coffee table, spun it a few times so the doodled side faced him. He didn't realize when he'd started doing that. Peter took a deep breath and leaned back, but it wasn't long before a wave of gloom caught up with him. Not physical this time.
He mumbled vaguely, "Sorry about earlier… how I talked…" while fumbling for his wife’s hand with his slightly withered fingers. Then he smiled as Gigi’s hand instinctively turned palm-up and clasped his.
"You were in a mood. I know," she said. If she’s lightly shaking our hands now, is that too much coddling? "But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easily." Her voice lifted playfully as she gave his hand a squeeze. Good—now she’s playing along.
Peter chuckled immediately. "Oh, come on… You love me. You know you do." He turned to find Gigi already watching him. Without a second thought, he leaned in and kissed his wife’s lips, drawing a laugh from her.
--
Having a small garden meant you were practically outdoors. Especially with that little man-made pond at its center – a converted swimming pool. The visits from little birds and squirrels (whose names Peter never bothered to learn) were always welcome. He'd even hung a bird feeder on the stand. The folding chair was his constant companion out there, letting him sit with a sketchbook and pencil in hand. It had been so long since he'd drawn anything, he had no idea what to sketch. It was Gigi who had practically shoved the sketchbook and pencil into his grip, like she was handing crayons to a child.
"I'm heading to the grocery store. You coming?"
"No. Don't feel like it."
She seemed oddly relieved.
"Well then, go draw something. When was the last time you sketched?" Gigi brushed the dust off the sketchbook she'd unearthed earlier and handed it to Peter, along with the pencil.
"What? I don't—"
"Take your pills, okay? See you later."
The click of the door closing punctuated the end of the conversation.
Damn… Couldn't even be bothered to give me a kiss goodbye. Women. Just then, something landed with a soft thump near his feet, nearly hitting him. He looked down. It was… an apple? He picked it up. What the hell? He didn't think they had an apple tree or anything. He glanced up at the sky, clueless.
He studied the apple in his hand for a moment – plump and rosy red. Scratching his head, he pushed himself up using the coffee table. Walking back inside, he set the sketchbook and pencil down. How long had it been since his wife left? Peter had no sense of time. He wanted to call Gigi. He put the apple aside and fished his phone out of the nightstand drawer.
"Didn't I just charge this yesterday?" he grumbled at the dead screen, digging around for the charger cable and plugging it in.
Perched on the bed' s edge, he stared blankly until the screen lit up. Thank God. He hated feeling like a dinosaur. An alarm chirped from the nightstand—med time. He pushed off the mattress, found his mug in the living room, then located his pill organizer. Gigi' s neat handwriting labeled each compartment: dosage, time. He yanked off his glasses, squinting at one label: Take with food. Ah. That one.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Peter sat on the couch for a long while, just… drifting. How much time passed? He didn't know. When he snapped back, he blinked rapidly, not even sure when he'd zoned out. His lips felt dry. He reached for his mug – the tea had gone cold. He sighed, shuffled into the kitchen to boil some water for a refill, and leaned against the island counter for a moment. With nowhere else to go, Peter drifted back to the couch. Wasn't this spot becoming his permanent residence? He sank into Gigi's usual seat. Absently, he spun the mug on the side table a few times until the doodle faced him. It was too quiet. The silence felt way too lonely. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
He flipped through channels aimlessly. Most of what was on held no interest for him. His free hand hovered over the steaming mug. Peter turned his palm upwards, letting the warm vapor lightly dampen his skin. The veins on the back of his hand stood out, pronounced and winding, like the dry beds of ancient rivers. He missed the feel of Gigi rubbing lotion onto his hands in the mornings. His skin was getting dry again – rough, flaking. The dry lips were just the start.
2.
Thud-
Peter opened his eyes. His arm, stretched out and dangling over the edge of the bed, felt weightless, his palm empty. He sat up, grabbed his glasses from beside his pillow, and put them on. It really is a big bed, he noticed, especially with his wife gone.
Peter looked down over the side of the bed. He must have fallen asleep holding that apple from the garden; its absence now meant it must have rolled underneath.
I should get it out. He hesitated. Can I? Peter wasn't just thinking about the apple; he was calculating the cost of the physical maneuvers involved. Bend down, sure, but that wouldn't be enough. He'd have to get down on his knees, wouldn't he? Could his joints handle that? What if he ended up lying on the floor, unable to get up? An old man sprawled on the floor, clutching an apple—the image flashed through his mind.
"Dammit," he groaned, the sound unnaturally loud in the empty bedroom. The thought of giving up settled over him like a thin veil—too much trouble, too risky, just an apple. Wait for Gigi to get back and let her pick it up. It seemed perfectly reasonable, and he felt himself relax almost immediately.
But another voice, quieter yet more stubborn, whispered from deep within: Just an apple. Can't I even pick up a single apple? That faint resistance pricked through the veil of resignation like a needle. A sudden surge of determination, almost petulant, rose in him. He needed to prove something, if only to himself.
Besides, that apple—that uninvited, suspiciously plump red apple—was down there. Like a silent heart sinking in deep water.
Peter took a deep breath, like starting up a rusty old machine. He broke the movement down into countless careful steps: First, slowly shift his body until his hips were fully on the edge of the bed. Feet tentatively found the floor, relishing the solid feel of the ground beneath them. Then, pressing his hands firmly into the mattress, he leaned forward, transferring some of his weight onto his feet. His knees gave a faint protest, but he ignored it.
The critical bend was next. He didn't try to swoop down like a younger man might. That was far too dangerous. Instead, he adopted a safer, more humiliating strategy – he lowered himself slowly, almost vertebra by vertebra, while carefully bending his right knee, lowering it down, down further, until his kneecap lightly touched the cool floor. Damn, it still felt undignified, even though he thought he should be used to it by now. His left leg remained half-braced, offering meager balance. The whole process unfolded in agonizing slow motion, his entire focus channeled into controlling every muscle, every breath.
Sweat beaded at his temples. One hand gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening with the strain, while the other reached down into the darkness beneath the bed. Fingertips probed through dust, brushing against fuzzy clumps of lint, a long-lost pill… and then, finally, they touched the smooth, cool, firm sphere.
"Ha!" A short, puff of air burst from his throat. He pressed his body tighter against the floor, stretching his arm further, fingers nudging the sphere until he slowly rolled it out. As the apple, now dust-speckled yet still vividly plump, lay fully exposed in the light, Peter felt a strange warmth surge from his chest straight to the crown of his head. He'd done it! No fall, no sprain, no calling for help! A long-lost, childlike sense of pure accomplishment instantly enveloped him, making the corners of his mouth lift uncontrollably into a grin. He even felt the urge to punch the air in victory.
He stayed frozen in that awkward, one-kneed crouch, the apple clutched tightly in his hand like a recovered medal. He looked around. The bedroom was utterly silent, save for his own breathing and the faint, distant chirping of birds. Sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, laying a bright band on the floor where dust motes danced soundlessly in the beam.
This excitement, this small triumph, had no witness. Gigi was at the grocery store; the neighbors were behind their garden fences. The room held only himself and his stubbornly beating heart. That triumphant "Ha!" he'd let out suddenly felt foolish now, like an old fool performing a soliloquy to an empty room.
A sharp sense of loss doused his excitement like cold water. He looked down at the apple in his hand, its red glaringly bright. What had he risked so much for, expended so much effort, just to retrieve an apple that had rolled under the bed? What kind of "accomplishment" was this? To anyone else, it would seem trivial, maybe even slightly ridiculous – an old man spending minutes on his knees just to pick up a piece of fruit. That was all. No one would applaud. No one would clap him on the shoulder and say, "Well done, Peter." This realization brought a flush of embarrassed shame, as if that intense burst of joy had been stolen, an inappropriate frivolity for a man his age.
He gave a self-mocking twist of his lips and muttered under his breath, "Crazy old fool…" Gripping the bed edge, he began the process of pushing himself up from the floor, moving even slower and with more effort than when he'd bent down. Only now did the ache in his knees and the stiffness in his lower back announce themselves clearly, the price exacted by his little "adventure."
The apple lay cool and heavy in his wrinkled, age-spotted palm. He instinctively rubbed his thumb over a smudge of dust on its surface, the pad of his finger registering the taut smoothness of its skin. Peter stared down at it. The sunlight illuminated a small, bird-pecked looking blemish near the top. A complex feeling – weariness, satisfaction, and an inescapable loneliness – settled over him. The meager confidence gained from successfully retrieving it dissipated like morning mist in the absence of anyone to share it with.
Silently, he slipped the apple into the pocket of his robe. He felt its solid weight press against his thigh, like carrying a small, unspoken secret no one else could understand – or needed to. In the living room, the news anchor's voice droned on, reporting distant wars or elections, things that felt infinitely farther away to him right now than retrieving a fallen apple.
He wished Gigi would hurry back.