Thank you to Rochelle for providing this prompt for Friday Fictioneers!
Going to Seed
We sit under the maple in Adirondack chairs, sipping fruity rum drinks, your own invention, while a soft breeze stirs the humid air like a spoon in a cauldron.
Your hair’s gray, I noticed recently, and lines crease your face. Sometimes when I glance in the mirror, I really look, not just presume I know my image. When did these crevices appear?
Was it yesterday when rum drinks would lead to afternoon passion? Now they make my eyelids heavy and the house finch’s serenade a lullaby, which has already taken you to dreams, soft snores conveying your travels.