"Thank Lord the day is over", said Mrs. Harrison while finally climbing into the conjugal bed next to her husband.

It took her a long hour to prepare for the night after getting home from their friend Jones' retirement party; and her legs' muscles were aching even before the evening started. But things had to be done no matter how late the night was, and she wasn't a person to leave today's work for tomorrow. With a content heart she stretched her feet beneath the blankets, sighing with relief.

Mr.Harrison lowered the magazine he was reading and waited for her to settle down. Like every night, he was intermittently watching her errands above his thin reading glasses; tidying the closet, shutting the curtains, bringing water for the night, walking in and out the bathroom about tens of times - each time accompanied by subtle, pleasant smells - dressing for the night. Like a little bird fussing about her latest egg.
When she eventually laid her head on the pile of white, scrubbed pillows, he returned his attention toward the glossy pages.

"Martin", she spoke with her blue eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He lowered the magazine again.
"Yes, dear."
"Did you take your pills?"
Once upon a time, when they decided that two kids was just about enough, it was his job to remind her taking the pills.
"Yes, I did."
She turned her glance to him.
"Maybe you should have skipped them this one time, you know? You did have a few glasses tonight."
Mr. Harrison considered the idea carefully.
"I don't think that should be a problem, honey. I only drank champagne, and you could imagine it was pretty weak."
"Yes, I noticed." she answered elusively. "Quite cheap champagne, if you ask me."
Mr. Harrison didn't ask, quietly trying to finish his article.
"Do you think they have financial problems? I mean, with their kids' troubles and all."
She was always worried about their friends' real or imaginary difficulties.
"Samuel Jones is always been a prudent person; I wouldn't expect him to ever have financial problems."
A little sigh got lost in the silent room.
She pulled the blanket away from her feet, slowly moving her red painted toes back and forth, causing small, relieving clacks. Mr. Harrison gave up his magazine.
"Florence, are you talking with Dr. Simmons about your joints?"
She addressed him a brave smile.
"Oh, it's nothing, dear, really. Just too much time in those tight shoes, that's all."
"I don't like those pain you have lately."
She concentrated on her toes.
"We can't fight age, can we? I'd say they are only normal signs of me getting older."
With that little philosophical remark, Mrs. Harrison took a book from her night stand drawer, and nestled herself even more comfortably.
Mr. Harrison mentally noted to talk that week with their physician, then glanced at his wife.

Maybe it was the champagne, or the happy knowledge that his own retirement was still few years away, or maybe it was the champagne AND the pills combined.
Maybe it was Mrs. Harrison's eyelids' shadow falling so sweet on her delicate cheeks' skin, as she read her book.
Fact is that Mr. Harrison felt a little... effervescent, so to speak. And his wife's night cream smelled really nice.

"Is that book any good at all?" he dutifully asked, taking his reading glasses off. As a veteran writer, he was always curious about books. As a veteran husband, he'd always tried to show interest in his wife's hobbies.
She shrugged.
"I don't know so far. Too much thinking and remembering. I'll try few more pages; if they don't get to action, that's the end of it."
Mr. Harrison smiled; his wife had a very personal opinion on what a book should offer. He stretched his back slowly, then slipped a searching hand under his wife's blanket.
In perfect synchronization, Mrs. Harrison answered with a discreet yawn.
Her husband's hand took note but didn't hesitate; the sought warmth was really near.
"Martin, did you locked the entrance door?" she asked, suddenly worried.
"I did", he answered confidently.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, honey."
Mrs. Harrison had troubles finding the last line she'd been reading on the book's page.
"What do you think about a nice back massage, honey?" proposed Mr. Harrison generously. "You had a long day."
Whatever Mr. Harrisson's hand was doing under that blanket, it must have been directly related to his wife's vision, because the book got closer and closer to her nose.
"Oh, I don't know, dear. It would be nice, but we both had a long day, and tomorrow I have to wake up early. Don't we better leave it for some other time?" she asked with the most innocent voice.
Mr. Harrison counted 17 days in his head and called the soldiers home.
Then, optimistic as he always was, he thought it wasn't so bad after 30 years of marriage. From highly trusted sources he knew that for some of his friends, same age - different wives, making love was no more than a biannual event. He could consider himself lucky.

But even so, in this late hour of a cold November night, Mr. Harrison still felt a little charged. And he was a resourceful writer, with a plan B always in place. So he pulled out a disappointed hand and grabbed the magazine, resuming his lecture.
"You must be right, honey. I am also working tomorrow, so I'll have to wake up early too", he said blankly.
"Oh, another project?"
Mrs. Harrison's voice had a fresh note of interest, spiced with a tint of guilt.
"Nah, just an old client."
Her husband was also a gifted landscape designer; for the last twenty years or so his little local business provided for everything a decent household required, and then some more.
"Someone I know?"
"Mrs. Angelina Costello. I've told you about her."
Mrs. Harrison remembered that she heard quite a lot lately about Angelina Costello, the widow with a large inheritance and a new villa. She didn't like the kind of feelings this specific client caused her.
"The one who looks like Sophia Loren?"
Caught in the details of the latest architectural gems, Mr. Harrison nodded absently.
If you come to think about it, Sophia Loren was looking quite provocative.
"And what she needs this time?" Mrs. Harrison turned her book upside down on her lap, and carefully straightened some unseen folds on her blue blanket.
"Oh, I'm not sure, but she just widened her swimming pool, so I imagine most of the greenery is destroyed. Not much of a project, I guess."
Mrs. Harrison's eyebrows raised a bit.
"Then why not sending Billy over there? You can stay home and maybe work some more on your book."
Mr. Harrison eyes stared for a few seconds at the empty space in front of him, before meeting again the illustrated journal.
"No, it's okay. I love taking care of her place. It has a homely feeling, you know. And it makes me feel useful."
The invisible folds on Mrs. Harrison sheets seemed to alarmingly multiply.
"I imagine she's a nice person, if you prefer to personally handle all her projects."
"She is indeed. And very lonely in that big house since her husband died. It must be hard for her."
"Doesn't she have kids, or any family around?"
"She have two boys, but they are both living in New York."
Mrs. Harrison thought about that.
"Then maybe you could invite her over for lunch sometime. I would like to meet her."
"Well, I don't know if it's a good idea. She seems to be sensitive of people pitying her."
Mrs. Harrison eyebrows met for a short briefing session.
"How old did you say she is?"
"About your age, I think. Or maybe a couple of years younger; hard to say since she's taking care of herself so well."
She threw him a cold look.
For a while only the sound of turned pages bothered the night's peace.
"Well, I think I'll go to sleep now, Martin."
"Already?"
"Oh, yes. I AM a little old and tired, after all."
Mr. Harrison finally turned his glare to her, just in time to meet her back, as she put off the night lamp on her side of the bed.
"Good night, dear", she said, and covered herself up to the ears.
Shadows and silence engulfed the bedroom.
Once again Mr. Harrison put the magazine and the reading glasses away.
"Florence", he said to his wife's back, which didn't quite answered him.
"You know I love you very much, don't you?"
The only answer was the unaffected silence. Mr. Harrison came closer and embraced the clump of blankets wearing his wife's head.
"Honey, you are the only one for me. Even if you don't look like Sophia Loren."
A timid chuckle escaped the coverings.
"You are the only one I ever wanted," he said tenderly, now caressing her turned head.
She stirred in her hiding, bending an attentive ear toward him.
"And for me, you are the most beautiful woman in the world. No matter how old or how tired you are. You know that, don't you?"
Mrs. Harrison emerged from her wrappings and hugged him tight, her blue eyes bright with emotion.
"Oh, Martin, I was hoping you will say that... I love you too, dear", she said warmly.
Mr. Harrison kissed his wife with infinite affection, which in turn stretched her hand and put his night lamp off.

"Thank you, Mrs. Angelina Costello", he thought, smiling in the dark, imagining the heroine of his latest story nodding sympathetically from the manuscript pages. What a luck his wife only read action books.

Then he made love with her, tenderly and lovingly, as he did for more than 30 years.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.12.2010

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