Marge and I settled our creaky bones into the cheap room for rent without a view. Marge wrinkled her nose. “Smells like cooked cauliflower.”
“Or sweet, sweaty gym socks,” I added.
But it was all we could afford with pills to buy and docs to pay, so we resigned ourselves and made the bed, each arthritic move and raspy breath a chore.
That first night, we dreamt of floating castles. During our next sleep, we walked crystalline beaches. After a week of blissful pain-easing slumber, we befriended the skunky smell and its owner, our landlord and neighbor, Kent the Cannabis King.