Henry Long

Henry Long was finally sick to death of collecting those stiff, put-out sideways glances from his wife when he did something she thought not quite right for his age.

"For heaven's sake, Henry. Act your age!"

If he had a dollar for every time she said it, he wouldn't have had to hide his overtime pay in a separate checking account so that he could take her on a cruise.

It was an odd thing--caught in the middle this way. She'd rant and rave and say she didn't have the time, energy, money or clothes to go. But he wanted to go, and he really didn't want to go without her. Besides he had a dream.

He had a dream about the warm sea breezes coming off the Caribbean and doing a number on her like in Little Mermaid where Ariel turned into human being. (Yes, watching "childish" movies was one of those things she clicked her tongue at, but he loved the music and the story and the way the grandkids lit up when he suggested they watch it.) Her hair, thick and heavy and waving like the ocean, would come out of her top not and stream down her back while she inhaled the magical fragrance and she'd become the girl that he had so much fun with back when they had gone to college. Of course she'd be a bit shorter and have a few more wrinkles and her hair wouldn't be that firey auburn, but all that didn't really matter as much as what was in her soul.

Henry had thought long and hard about what it was in their life that had turned her into such a taskmaster that she had forgotten how to tango. Oh how they used to tango. They turned so many heads, it was a wonder they didn't have people sending them chiropractic bills for whiplash. Yes, he'd lost that spark for awhile too. There were kids and bills and mortgages and ailing parents and friends and small disasters like the tornado that whipped away the kids bedrooms back in the 60s. Thankfully the kids weren't in it. Afterwards he got a great deal of joy in telling them that "your bedroom looks like a tornado hit it" and listening to them giggle, but by then the love of his life had quit giggling.

Would she have been happier if she'd worked outside the home? Lots of women were doing that nowadays and they were starting to when the kids were all in school. It might not have hurt if she'd gotten something part time then, though he was so grateful that she was home when they got in from school and they didn't fill their afternoons with the kind of mischief unsupervised children did. It was impossible to tell.

No use thinking about it. There was no way to go back and change the past. There was only the future to fix. He looked at the brochure in his hand and decided to head down to the travel agent. He'd find someone who knew exactly what she should have on this jaunt, from hair pins to flip flops, and he'd pack it for her. He'd call the kids and find out what all she might fret about not paying or doing or seeing got done while she was gone and ask them to do it. Then he'd just load her up on the day of their departure and drive her to the airport and carry her on the plane if he had to.

Oh, she'd fume for awhile. But he'd talk to her. Tell her it was killing him. Killing her, in fact. That she needed to have more fun, to find that girl who used to plant flowers and hike and dance. The full moon would rise over the horizon while they walked on the sand and she'd stop being clenched like a fist and relax and remember. Maybe. The effort would be worth it either way. He wasn't going to collect those angry darts and worry himself to death about what he should have done differently anymore.