Across the breakfast table he observes his wife, wrapped in a robe of pale, fuzzy pink--her hair sticking up in spikes, the residue of last nights' cold cream glistening on her face. She gives no sign she is aware of his presence, but stares through the window at the clear blue sky--seeing, no doubt, a tableau of confusing, yet familiar images.
He wonders if she has put the butter in the silver drawer again, or filed the bills with her recipes. Since the diagnosis, life at home has become a fun house--unexpected incongruities around every corner.
He sighs and remembers her at 18--her breasts eyed with great curiosity by young men, her blue eyes bright and depth less, her wit and intelligence far surpassing his own. She could have been anything, he muses, but she chose to be his.
"Fifty years, Lillian," he says.
She turns her head slowly to look at him. The confusion in her eyes lingers (she is like a sleeper awaking from a deep and vivid dream), then, as if a switch is thrown, she is HERE. NOW.
"Arthur. I...."
"Sshh," he says to her. Reaching inside his coat, he removes a small box and slides it across the table toward her. It is wrapped in silver and tied with a blue bow. She reaches for it with arthritic, liver spotted hands.
"Happy Anniversary," he says.
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