Joy (Part 1)

Milk sloshed out of the turquoise cereal bowls as Eloise’s fists hit the table. “Forty-eight years, Harold. Forty-eight years and you still forget my morning peaches.” Eloise stepped back over to the eggs sputtering in a pan on the stove. She gazed at her husband, spatula in hand, awaiting a response. Harold’s bones groaned as he rose from the kitchen table and swallowed a final sip of coffee. Knee creaking, he walked toward the front door. His soft brown moccasin had a piece of loose stitching which dragged behind his foot, to the great pleasure of his small cat, Lemon. Harold stretched open the door to the morning light.

“Forty-eight years,” he mumbled. Harold slowly lowered his thin frame onto a yellow porch chair. The peaches could wait five minutes. He stretched out his long legs, opening a napping place for Lemon. As he smoothed her light orange fur, he glanced at his hands. Between the knuckles of his left hand a veiny blue “Y” protruded to the top of thin, transparent skin. His fingertips were rough and calloused; the nail on his right pinky had never grown back. Harold’s gaze shifted out to the street as he settled deeper into the chair. He was secretly thankful for a wife too completely caught up in her own business to peek through the front window. Lemon awoke, stretched, and jumped off his lap, responding to the invitation of the warming concrete.

The Florida retirement community Harold and Eloise called home boasted perfectly manicured grass, shimmering swimming pools, and fully furnished villa-style homes. It also had a fairly fast turn over rate; the small home across the street was especially notorious for hosting people close to the grave. The newest resident at 21 Molasses Lane was just arriving home. Harold leaned forward as a classic red Chevelle, beautifully maintained, slowly curved under the carport. An old woman with bluish silver hair clamored out of the front seat, dragging a cloth shopping bag behind her. Carefully watching his new neighbor shuffle through her front door, Harold rose from his chair. He checked to be sure Lemon’s cat door was unlocked and, scanning the street, crossed to the Chevelle.

Ducking under an angled carport support beam, Harold circled to the front of the car. He fingered the broad white stripes on the hood then casually glanced in the driver’s side window. Peering across the street at the yellow façade of his villa, he pressed his thumb into the button on the handle. It gave and the door swung open. With a deep breath, Harold climbed inside. The seat had been pushed up far towards the steering wheel. Harold grabbed the bar under the seat and slid back until his knees unbent. He gasped. The woman’s dolphin keychain still dangled from the ignition. Swallowing, Harold gripped the key and the car purred to life.