Pauline sat looking at Harold. He was a blind date; who her sister had hooked her up with. He wasn’t bad looking, just looked his age. He was three years older than her and she was forty seven. She really hated thinking about her age, much less saying out loud. Since she had turned forty, she had begun to think of herself as old.
She tried to stay focused on what Harold was talking about. Something about pear trees. She found herself wondering where it was all leading, this date, her life, life in general. She had caught Harold sizing up all the young women walking past the table. She didn’t blame him, she had begun wishing she could be ten years or so younger. With all the things she knew now she would be “hell on wheels” at anything she would want to do. She watched all those younger people at work wasting their lives. She had to agree with that saying” Youth was wasted on the young.”
“So I have invested in a nursery......” Pauline smiled and nodded like she was listening. She looked at the table next to them. It was just a moment ago, empty but an older couple had just seated themselves there. Pauline would have guessed that they must be sixty or so. Then she noticed a waiter was approaching them with a golden platter upon it, a beautiful glass bottle and two gold cups. She shifted in her seat to get a better view of the bottle. It looked old and hand blown. It flowed from the bottom to the neck in swirls which created rivets like the glass had been twisted while being formed. The rivets seemed to be a tree. It had streaks of gold and blue glass in it. The liquid inside seemed to be red. Each cup had a pear engraved upon it , a golden pear. Pauline felt the cups pull her gaze.
The waiter placed down the platter and said, “Congratulations on your 50th anniversary. The Fountain salutes you and hopes to see you back for the next big one.”
Pauline thought that was an odd thing to say unless he had meant he hoped they would be back for their fifty first anniversary. She tilted her head to look like she was looking at Harold, but her eyes kept being drawn back to the cups and then the bottle. But then she had to look twice at the couple. She was sure the woman’s hair was a different shade. Pauline blinked a few times but the woman’s hair stayed a deep auburn red with little traces of gray. When she had sat down, Pauline could have sworn that the woman’s hair was mostly white. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Pauline smiled at Harold. He was holding her hand, and she hadn’t even noticed him picking it up.
Her mind went back to the woman and her eyes soon followed. What she saw made her sit up a little straighter and try to move closer to the table without it being obvious she was doing so. Where had the woman’s laugh lines and the wrinkles go, with being sixty, gone. It seemed, as crazy as it sounded, the woman was changing right before Pauline’s eyes. She turned a bit and now noticed that the man who she hadn’t paid any attention to was also a lot younger looking then she would have thought. Pauline rubbed her eyes. She saw concern in Harold’s eyes. He seemed very interested in her and Pauline felt a little bad.
Pauline looked up at Harold and smiled as her eyes sneaked a look at the couple. What she saw almost made her jump up in shock. Where there had once been a elegant lady of sixty now sat a woman of forty. She looked around the rest of the restaurant though it seems as though no one else but her noticed the change in the couple.
Pauline began to feel lightheaded. She must have been mistaken, the couple couldn’t have been in their sixties, because now they looked younger than her. She was so sure the waiter had said fifty years they had been together only that just couldn’t be true looking at them.
The couple got up to leave. Pauline could only stare shockingly and looking like a fish out of water as the woman approached her. The couple now looked like they were in their 30s. The woman smiled and leaned down and spoke to Pauline.
“The house specially, a delightful red is worth the price, my dear.” Then she laughed a deep laugh and walked away. Pauline sat still for a moment, and smiled at Harold who looked a bit confused and thought,' what the hell' and waved to the waiter.
About the Creator
Shardvixen
I love to create, and writing is one of the ways I do it. I also have two youtube channels; one for gaming and vlogs and the other one for my crafting. I also have a Twitch channel for my gaming. Pop culture prompts my writing.
Keep reading
More stories from Shardvixen and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Duty
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. That is a Groundling saying. Thumpers have a totally different saying, “When a Thumper is near, no can can hear you scream, because you are dead” The saying ends with a roar and thumping on the chest or ground. 1st Mate Tank Thumper the 21st jumped out of his body ship with a deafening roar and a heavy welcoming thump on the dusty dirt of the plateau, picked as a perfect landing site. Tank thump on his chest for pure joy.
By Shardvixen2 years ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
unlocking the door
In a village, there lived a teenage boy named Mada. Mada was intelligent and talented, but he was also very closed-minded and rarely showed his emotions to anyone. After realizing that his father had left and never contacted him again, Mada became more isolated and found it difficult to connect with other people.
By Mahmud Anhari6 days ago in Fiction
OF MOTHERHOOD.
Dear mother-to-be, I wanted to let you know how very, very special I think you are. I don't think there can be any job that is more meaningful than the one you are about to begin, that of being a mom. You are the most important person in the world to your precious unborn baby, and you will be for many years.
By Catherine Nyomenda4 days ago in Writers
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.