Married Fifty Years

By Catherine Underhill Fitzpatrick

I borrowed bell-bottoms and a tube top from my roommate and snagged a ride to the party. A cool dude I did not know handed me a Harvey Wallbanger, and then another. Somebody lowered the long version of ‘Hey Jude’ onto a turntable, again.

I slalomed through drifts of oddly piquant smoke to the fringes of the crowd and came to rest near a boy standing alone. No surprise. He wore a white shirt with a button-down collar. His glasses had thick black frames.

I sidled up.

He gazed at me, unblinking, unsure.

“Hi,” I purred. “I can’t feel my teeth.”