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When Linda finally gets home, it’s half past midnight. She wants to sigh, relieved to have gotten this close to bedtime, but decides to save that final step of relaxation until she’s actually sitting down.
“Lin?” Bob calls from the living room, where he sits on the couch mindlessly channel flipping.
Linda follows his voice, spotting the comfy spot on the sofa that she’s been dreaming of all night. Seeing her husband slouching back comfortably, his feet on the coffee table, only makes her more aware of how badly her own feet are hurting.
“Hi Bobby.” She says, winded. “Oh, boy. Please never let me wear these stupid shoes again. I mean it!”
Flinging her heels to the side, she all but collapses into Bob. When the couch is just as cozy as she dreamed it to be, she finally releases the sigh she’s been containing.
“Fun night?” Bob asks, a note of concern in his voice. “Was it nice to see Ginger again?”
Linda closes her eyes, relishing the feeling of his arm wrapped around her, and nods. Seeing Ginger is always nice, but she just hadn’t anticipated exactly how big a toll drinking would take on her. After all, it’s been months since she’s participated in night life.
“It was fun, until my body pooped out on me. I pushed a baby outta this thing, and now it can’t even handle two hours in a club!”
Bob hums empathetically.
“Lin, don’t be so hard on yourself. You lasted longer than I would have. Way longer.”
Though his sentiment is appreciated, it doesn’t make Linda feel any more secure about her newfound lack of stamina. She’s getting older now, and being a mom is exhausting, and at some point she just has to accept that.
Next time they make plans together, she might even suggest to Ginger that they stay in. Drinking will still be a necessity, but at least that way they’ll be able to control the volume of the music they listen to. Linda’s hearing is still partially muffled from tonight’s obnoxiously loud club, even as she rests her face on Bob’s chest.
“I have a bellyache.” She announces sullenly, closing her eyes and preparing to fall asleep right on the couch.
When her thoughts land on her eight-month-old, sleeping peacefully in the nursery, she shoots her head up to look Bob urgently in the eye. Great. Now she feels like a terrible mother, too.
“How’s my baby?” Linda demands, panic-stricken for no reason at all. “She’s been sleeping this whole time?”
“Uh-huh.” Bob assures. “I’ve gone in to check on her, like…a lot. She’s so cute, Lin.”
“And small.” Linda agrees, her head falling onto his chest once again.
This is an exchange they share several times a day, always discussing the matter as though it’s both brand new information and of great importance. Linda knows that all mothers think this, but she’s pretty positive she’s right when she says her baby is the sweetest, most perfect baby there ever was.
“So small.” Bob says. “You had a good time tonight, didn’t you? You seem…clingy.”
To prove his point, he rubs the limp arm now flopped over his midsection. Linda can’t be bothered to keep track of her limbs at the present moment.
“I did.” She says earnestly. “Lots of fun! I just feel like a puddle now. Droopy and…melty.”
Closing her eyes again, she’s grateful when Bob begins stroking her hair without her needing to ask. There’d been a moment at the club when nausea set in, and she’d soothed herself with the memory of his fingers carding through her hair. Just like in her self soothing fantasy, it works like a charm.
“I get it.” He says. “I feel that way, when I don’t go out dancing. Are we sleeping on the couch tonight?”
Linda weighs her options. When the idea of standing up for any reason gives her a surge of annoyance, she decides Bob’s suggestion is probably for the best.
“Please.” She mumbles. “And you keep playing with my hair, and then you put pajamas on me, and then you get me a snack. Crackers. And chocolate.”
Bob snorts but doesn’t argue.
“Do I? Okay, Lin. Fine.”
She’ll thank him in the morning, but part of the joy of being married is earning the right to be a little bossy sometimes. It goes both ways! Tomorrow night, Bob’ll probably gently prod her into doing all the dishes or something. They’ll be even.
“Yay.” She says, too exhausted to put an exclamation point on the end of the sentence. “Hey, is it just me, or are we getting really old?”
The answer is clear, but hearing what Bob has to say on the subject will probably make her feel better. His fingers stop for just a second, before they begin working their magic again.
“It’s not just you, Lin. I think we are really old.”
To Linda’s surprise, the remark doesn’t bother her as much as it would have a few minutes before. She knows she’s got plenty of good years left in her, and she’s going to drag Bob along behind her whether he feels like acting young or not.
“I think so, too.” She agrees. “And soon we’ll be really old. Wrinkly and gray. Tina’ll put you in a nursing home, and I’ll come to visit ya!”
Bob jerks his head to look at her, sincerely offended, and Linda guffaws.
“Alright, alright. Fine! We’ll be in the home together. Side by side rocking chairs, okay?”
Bob pretends to think on that for a moment, and he finishes his pondering with a shrug.
“Fine. Yes. But I get to pick the nursing home.”
Linda laughs again, and suddenly all this talk of age doesn’t feel like a death sentence. It feels sort of good, actually. Like maybe they have a lot to look forward to.
She doesn’t complain any more about her sore feet, and she doesn’t continue whining about how ancient she feels. She just cuddles into her husband’s chest, feeling safer and warmer than she does anywhere else.