Old People

You were frowning so I tickled your feet. Then you shouted at me, you didn’t laugh, and pulled your feet away because you hate having your feet tickled. You stretched your legs out again and crossed them like they were before. I just sat there looking at you but you carried on staring into your book. I sighed, but you still didn’t look up. You turned a page with a crisp flick. I leaned down and kissed your big toe. It wiggled in reply but you still didn’t look up from your book. It must’ve been a very good book indeed. Or perhaps you weren’t reading and just pretending. I crawled beside you and lay on my side, facing away from you, and rested my head on your thigh. You brushed my hair away from my face with your fingers and stroked my neck and my hair and my cheek and my ear. I could tell you still hadn’t looked up from your book. I closed my eyes and we just lay there for a while. I must’ve fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes again it was dark and you’d turned the bedside lamp on. I sat up and looked at you. You were still reading your book but you looked tired. I said I must’ve fallen asleep and you agreed and said I’d been very quiet and still. You put down your book then and stretched and yawned and smiled, a little like a cat. I kissed you on the lips and rested my head on your shoulder and wondered if old people did things like this.


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