Joe and Marge at the Movies

Joe and Marge at the Movies

They were getting old and they didn't even know it. Joe smiled like the crowsfeet and the false

teeth and the double chin didn't show--- weren't there. Marge walked just like the base of her

neck didn't bow up and hump down into her spine--- just like the index and middle fingers of

her right hand weren't twisting slowly, year by year as the knuckles grew to the size of

chestnuts. Joe held that hand when they strolled down the aisle to find their seats, bought

popcorn that they put between them, placing their hands in the sack together, later,

fighting playfully over the last kernels. And as the movie progressed, Joe slid his arm behind

Marge's thin shoulders, resting the crook of his elbow around her crooked back like they were

made to fit like that. At the end of the show Joe would grin big as a kid or maybe cry and, either

way, Marge would stretch over with her tiny face and kiss his chin, the touch soft as the muzzle

of a colt. They would leave slowly, reluctant as lovers at the end of a long-awaited first date,

wanting to stretch it out, wanting it not to end, waiting to see all the credits, hear the very last

note of the closing overture,

remarking that movies are just too short.