Side by side. Different breakfasts. Cantaloupe, blueberries, and yogurt for her. Oatmeal for him, cinnamon, no raisins. She faces the bookstand that holds her e-reader. He tilts his head to listen to the podcast coming through his ear buds. Sometimes they bump elbows or reach for the coffee press at the same moment. They defer to the other with a hand wave that says, “you first.” When they finish eating they place their dishes in the dishwasher and stand facing each other, silent, looking, checking for signs of any new infirmities or a slip in cognition – hunched shoulders, a muscle twitch, a misbuttoned shirt, a food smudge on the cheek. After the inspection, they step closer and encircle their arms around the other’s narrowing waist. She nuzzles her head into his neck and notices the stray chin hairs he missed with his shaver. He perches his head on top of hers and notices her thinning hair. They break the hug and smile the smile they remember from forty-five years ago. The constant that never changes, when so much else has already been lost.
INSTANT NOODLES 