That’s what she’s scribbled on this week’s shopping list: tonight’s dinner—Lovers.
I puzzle over it, loading Tuesday’s gammon into the trolley.
Not a word we use anymore. We did, when our joints didn’t ache, when we had no cares, when we lived hand to mouth, lips to bed. Before her menopause and my GERD.
Is this our reawakening? Has she found what we lost?
When I get home, I slip my arms around her. “So, what’s for dinner tonight?” I nibble her neck.
She twists and shrugs. “Left overs.”
She kisses me fondly. “But I prefer your suggestion.”