"...When I'm Sixty-Four"

On the tram home the other night, Curtis and I sat near an older couple, probably in their fifties or sixties, and likely traveling, judging from a map protruding from the woman's purse. They weren't overly affectionate, sitting side by side yet occupying their own space, and their faces and bodies showed signs of a long and tiring day, an exhausting and fulfilling life.

Her hair, mostly brown with a bit of peek-a-boo grey, nestled casually in a bun on the nape of her wrinkled neck. His collared t-shirt, blue with white horizontal stripes, hugged his stomach, slightly rounded from years of fine food, good drink, and great memories.

I gestured across the aisle, and whispered in Curtis' ear.

“When my arms are flabby, my waist is wide, and my face is aged and wrinkly, will you still love me?”

He looked over at the couple for a minute, tuned back to me, and smiled.

“When I have a beer belly I can rest things on, will you still love me?”

I laughed softly and turned back to watch the couple. They didn't look bored, though their faces stared blankly ahead. They knew this quiet time; they cherished the silence and used it to reflect on the happenings of the day, on the monuments of their lives.

I wanted to ask them so many questions, I wanted to know just how they managed to pull it off – a life together – and I wanted to be reassured that they hadn't just met last week on a blind date. But I didn't dare disturb their quiet contemplation with an overly personal interrogation. I rested my head against Curtis' shoulder and engaged with thoughts of my own life, as the tram sped South along St Kilda Road.

A beer belly? Yea, that's probably ok… as long as those freckles don't go anywhere.

ts...