Old Love

The kettle gives a satisfying BING. Mave heaves herself off the couch hobbles over and makes a cuppa. She fumbles one of her home made bikkies out of the cupboard and critically examines the delicate petals that adorn the biscuit. The decorations are OCD perfect, but Mave tuts that one of the petals is slightly smaller than the others.

She preps her tea the way she has for the last 60 years. Milk first. No sugar, no, her father would roll over in his grave if she dared thought of adding sugar to her tea. She stirs it exactly 5 times, and washes the spoon straight away. She settles in for a lovely night of telly. Oh how she loved watching “The Biggest Loser”, especially when they fell off the treadmill like oompa loompas. She just couldn’t help but chuckle.

The floor boards  below creak, and a loud thud thud thud sounds. Mave’s smile turns to a grimace. Not even the fattest contestant rolling around in a pathetic mess of tears could cheer her up.

Grant’s stomach sounded like a wild pack of dogs, and it could probably just about eat a whole pack of wild dogs too. Starvation motivated his arthritic joints to slowly get up. He waded his way through discarded newspapers, books, mail and general chaos to get the broom. He looked at his watch, 8.35 Wednesday, "The Biggest Loser" would be on. Perfect. He banged on the ceiling as loud as his tired bones would let him.

Mave turns the volume up as Gillian screams at a truck sized person to give her more, the trainer increases the intensity on the treadmill, and the inevitable oompa loompa moment is about to happen. She wishes Gillian was here to yell at her idiot husband. Thud, thud, thud.

 She snaps, mutes the telly and wanders over to the stairs. “What does that old git want now?” she mutters.  

  

She opens the door, “This better be a matter of life or death” She bellows.

Grant appears at the downstairs door. “Darling, have you forgotten to cook me dinner?”

Insulted, Mave spits back a no. She doesn’t forget anything. “Lazy old bastard” she mutters. She grabs Grant’s left over lasagne, a napkin and a knife and fork and places it in the basket at the top of the stairs, and pulls on the rope. The basket slowly winds it way to the bottom. Grant groans as he reaches down to pick it up.

“Looks good dear.”

Mave snaps, “Don’t forget to clean your plate this time.” She slams the door shut.    

“Goodnight” Grant says to an empty passage way.

  Grant peels off the tinfoil, and a waft of steam and meaty aromas fills his nostrils. He gobbles down the delicious cheeses and homemade tomato sauce. His estranged wife really made the best lasagne. He spares a thought that within the cheeses and the delicious sauce, there might be a big chunk of cyanide, but his wife may be many things, but one thing she isn’t is a murderer. His beautiful, perfect, and a little bit evil wife. When did separate bedrooms become separate levels? Now she’s got that awful pully basket thing and never comes down to say hello. She doesn’t need to, she puts all his food, and all his medicine in that basket. Between his bad back and his arthritis, it keeps him trapped down here in his own filth. He looks around at the clutter – newspapers thrown everywhere, marine biologist magazines in messy piles, coffee cups from weeks ago with the dregs developing enough mould to produce penicillin. It was probably for the best that old Mavie didn’t see him like this; she might just crack out the cyanide.

He knows that his wife will just rewash his plate anyway, but to respect her request, he washes his plate as best he can. It will never be up to her standards. He hobbles over to the basket, and places his clean dishes inside then grabs the broom and bangs on the ceiling.     

  

He spots a photo of two happy young people on their wedding day hung proudly at the bottom of the stairs. Him and Mave, such optimism and hope in their eyes, and such love. He takes the photo out of the frame and looks at the description on the back.

“Did you wash your plate properly this time?” Mave bellows from the top of the stairs.

“Yes dear.”

Grant fumbles the description tenderly.

“What’s that you’re looking at?” Mave demands.

“It’s our wedding photo.” Grant says.

Mave’s expression softens with grief.

“Do you know what you wrote on it?” Grant asks.

Mave pulls the dishes up in silence. Of course she remembers what she wrote on that gosh darn bloody photo. She was marring the love of her life. The whole town was jealous that she had won the lottery in the husband department – girls used to swoon over Grant Springs. The whole package. Looks, smarts, funny and nice. Now he can’t even climb the stairs or clean a plate – just as she predicted there were still spots of baked cheese on it.

She indulges her useless husband with a smile.

“I wrote, “I can’t wait to grow old together.” She says.

Their eyes meet in sadness. Mave hobbles down the stairs, “Come on you old git, let me help you up these bloody stairs. Gillian’s just made the fat and annoying one cry.”

As their old limbs struggle to climb the most simple of tasks, Grant says, “Aren’t they all fat and annoying?” They cackle away, their first laugh in a long, long time.