An 83-year-old man groaned as he hauled himself out of his recliner — knees popping like bubble wrap — and started shrugging into his coat.
His wife, watching from her rocking chair, stopped knitting and shot him a look.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Doctor’s office,” he said, patting his chest pocket. “Gonna ask about those new Via4ra pills. Figure at my age, why not live a little?”
She froze mid-rock. Then, without a word, she set her yarn aside, stood up, and grabbed her sweater from the back of the chair.
He frowned. “Whoa now. Where are you going?”
“Doctor’s office,” she said, buttoning up. “Same as you.”
“For what?” he asked, completely lost.
She adjusted her glasses and gave him the look that had kept him in line since 1963.
“If you’re gonna fire up that rusty old thing again, I’m getting a tetanus shot first.”