An elderly man in his eighties slowly pushed himself out of his recliner, joints cracking like old floorboards, and began putting on his coat with quiet determination.
His wife, rocking gently in her favorite chair, narrowed her eyes at him.
“Where are you going?” she asked, the suspicion practically dripping from her voice.
“I’m heading to the doctor,” he replied matter-of-factly, patting his pockets for his keys.
“Why? Are you feeling sick?” she pressed, leaning forward a little.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nope. I’m going to ask about those new Via4ra pills. You know… figure it’s never too late to try something new.”
She stared at him for a moment—long enough for him to sense trouble—then with surprising speed, she stood up and reached for her sweater.
He blinked. “Wait—where are you going?”
“To the doctor too,” she said briskly, sliding her arms into the sleeves.
“Why?” he asked, baffled.
She gave him one of those looks only a wife of sixty years can deliver and said,
“If you’re planning on using that rusty old thing again, I’m going to need a tetanus shot.”
