To say that I’m shocked would be an understatement; horrified might be a better way of putting it.
Mr. W and Mrs. M are holding hands. Well, she’s got her right hand in his and her left on his thigh. It’s quite an intimate pose and another of those reminders that age doesn’t strip away sexuality. That’s not the problem, however. On it’s own, I’d say it is sweet.
No, that’s not the problem.
“Er, Mr. W!” I call out, startling the, um, lovebirds.
“Yes?” he asks, a bit of exasperation creeping into his voice. “I’m trying to talk to my wife here.”
Well, that answers that question. I try a different way. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“B,” says Mr. W.
Mrs. M, whose name is most assuredly not B, smiles sweetly at him and then not-so-sweetly at me. “Do you need something?” she says coldly. “C and I are fine.”
Mr. W, whose name is most assuredly not C, nods emphatically. It’s clear they want to go back to their private moment. Well…that’s just…awkward for me.
I just stand there, mouth still open. I’m flabbergasted…how is it possible that they can recall the names of their spouses and not their own? Neither one of them seems to key to this fact. Mrs. M is easier to understand: her husband has been dead for years and she misses him terribly. Mr. W though…
The main problem with this sweet, sad scene before me is that the real Mrs. W is very much alive. Very much alive and in possession of a bad temper. I’m fairly certain that “sweet” is not a word she’d apply to this situation.
Looking back at the pair, I find I can’t quite bring myself to separate them. They might be confused, but they as also calm. Happy, even. Each of them has rediscovered the love of their lives…and it’s not their fault that person is wearing the wrong face.
I go to pass on the word to keep an eye out for the real Mrs. W. If she’s sighted, then I’ll break apart the, um, confused but sincere lovebirds.