Twin beds
Peter silently cursed the day they'd moved into the nursing home. The twin beds were beyond infuriating. The metre and a half that he had to traverse in the dark to get to his wife's bed for a little late-night nookie was painful, even after the hip replacement. But still he persevered.
"I still wanna be holding your hand when it's wrinkled and covered in age spots."
He'd kept to his word. Both his and Carla's hands were wrinkled; their entire bodies were showing clear signs of age. And he was still there holding her hand. Every day.
"Ooh," Peter grimaced with the pain as he eased his body under the covers on his wife's bed, snuggling up close to her, pressing his groin into her back in anticipation.
"Love," he whispered into her ear. "Are you awake?"
"Urrgghh," Carla moaned, desperately trying to maintain her grip on dreamland. But the sensation of her husband's energetic thrusting against her arse was too difficult to ignore. "Gerroff Peter," she said as she tried to swat him away.
"Don't be like that, love," he pleaded. "I need you."
"Did you see the doctor?"
"I don't need no doctor to make love to my wife."
"Ha!" she couldn't help but laugh. "You know you need a little help these days, Peter, to keep it up long enough."
"I don't –"
"You do," she hissed. "Now stop bothering me, I'm trying to sleep."
"But…"
"Listen, Peter," Carla said, her voice softening. "If you promise to see the doctor tomorrow, get some pills, then tomorrow night…"
"You mean it?"
"Yes," she gave him her word. "Now give me your hand."
He reached his arm over her body and took her hand gently in his; that wrinkled hand covered in age spots that he had held as they had walked through life together and continued still to walk, albeit a slower, more painful walk, as every day brought them closer to the end.