Anniversary Story

         Fred opened his eyes and looked fondly at his wife Clara, who still lay sleeping beside him.  Her hair, once lush and vibrant and full of color, was now almost completely white.  It was quite noticeably thinner too, he thought, and the curls she now wore did little to hide that thinness.  Her skin, also, had lost its luster; the wrinkled folds, blotched and bruised, sagged loosely as it clung desperately to her skeleton.
         When he lightly touched his wife's cheek, she awoke and smiled at him.  Still beautiful, he thought to himself, and returned his wife's smile, feeling his own loose skin slide across his skull.  He then ran his other hand along the top of his head.  While Clara had white, thinning hair, Fred himself had none.  Clara recognized her husband's frequent gesture and leaned over to lightly kiss his temple.
         "Happy Anniversary, darling," said Clara softly.
         "Happy Anniversary, dear," replied Fred.
         They both lay there for a moment, each appreciating the touch and presence of the other.  Finally Clara spoke: "So," she asked, "do you want me to get you the Oreos this year, or would you rather have the chocolate chip?"  Fred pondered this for a second.  It wasn't often that he got to indulge in sweets, and cookies were one of his favourite sweets.  His deteriorating health limited him to a rather strict diet, and Clara was very adamant about him following it.  It was only on rare occasions, mostly on their anniversary, and sometimes on Christmas, that his wife allowed him a small portion of dessert.
         "Both," Fred answered finally, unable to bring himself to choose one over the other.  Clara, who was now out of the bed and already halfway clothed, turned away from her dresser to lightly chide her husband, "Both?," she said.  Fred grinned.  "Well," she continued, "I suppose we can make an exception, this being our 50th and all," and then, muttering under her breath, "and to think I could have asked you for both roses and carnations."
         Fred chuckled to himself.  His hearing wasn't near as bad as his wife thought it was, and he frequently picked up Clara's mutterings when she thought the sound was too soft for him.  His humour arose from the fact that he had gotten her both roses and carnations.  In fact, he had ordered a total of nine bouquets, one for each room of the house.  The delivery van would be arriving sometime just before noon.
         Clara's morning preparations had now progressed to the bathroom, from where the sounds of streaming water and other various tinkerings drifted daintily into the bedroom.  Fred pulled himself out of bed and walked over to the closet, where he began thumbing through his selection of dress shirts.  He chose a dark blue one with long sleeves.  As he reached up to slip his arm into the shirtsleeve, he felt once again the slight pain in his shoulder that had frequently become a bother over the last couple of days.  He knew he must have strained it doing something, but for the life of him couldn't remember what.
         Leaving his shirt unbuttoned(he still had to shave), Fred slipped on a pair of black khakis.  The feel of the soft, cool fabric moving over his knees felt wonderful.  He sat there on the edge of the bed for a moment, resting his eyes and his seemingly always tired body.  After a few minutes, Fred resumed his dressing. Clara was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast by the time he had his shoes on and began making his way to the bathroom.  If he knew his wife, and he did, she would have an assortment of fruits ready for them to eat, along with some toast and low-cal jelly.
Clara called from the kitchen, "Apples or Oranges, dear?" Before answering, Fred finished sliding the disposable razor over his jawbone.
         "Either one, honey.  Whatever you're having is fine."  There was a knowing grunt from the kitchen as Fred moved the now dulling blade under his chin.  The razor cut well for the most part, but there was still the occasional bit of stubble that snagged.  It felt like someone was ripping the hair right off his face, and the unpleasantness of it caused his eyes to water.

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         Eventually, Fred joined his wife at the breakfast table. He had already poured them each a glass of 2% milk, and was about to spread some strawberry jelly on his warm, not-quite-burnt toast when time came to a complete halt. The culprit was none other than Hank, the modern American storytelling deity. He had been scrutinizing the progress of this rather uninteresting tale and finally decided to intervene before this abomination of mediocrity went any further. Hank looked at Fred, with his jelly knife motionless only millimeters above the slice of toast, and shook his head.
"Who's the dumbass constructing this story?", he said out loud, "I'd better do something before someone lapses into a coma."
         Hank reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pouch of Chaotic Pixie Dust, which he blew into Fred's left ear without a moment's hesitation.
"There", he said, quite satisfied with himself. "This story might still suck, but at least it shouldn't be so drab."
         Hank took another quick look around, flipped the bird in the direction he thought the author was in, muttered "fucking idiot", and winked out of existence. A moment later time resumed itself.

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         Fred finished jellying his toast, and then reached up to scratch his ear to relieve a sudden and intense itch. Clara made an offhand comment about him washing his ears out more frequently.
         "Nonsense, said Fred, "I just cleaned them out yesterday." Clara muttered something under her breath, but this time Fred didn't catch what it was.  The rest of their breakfast continued without incident, and after helping her husband clean up, Clara left for the supermarket. Hank, meanwhile, was laughing softly to himself and rubbing his hands in anticipation of forthcoming events. He never knew precisely what the Chaotic Pixie Dust would do, but he did know that it was always interesting.
         The bouquets Fred had ordered arrived soon after his wife left, and he began placing them in various places around the house. First, though, he wanted to set the mood. He leafed through his illegal mp3 cd collection(goddam money grubbing record label bastards) and settled on some early Metallica. There's nothing quite like some distorted guitar chords to spice up a wedding anniversary celebration.
         By the end of the third song Fred had everything situated in a satisfactory manner; The flowers, the pearl necklace he had bought for his wife, and the scented cinnamon candles he had lit and scattered throughout the house. Cinnamon was Clara's favourite.
         He had just stepped into the living room to relax for a bit and flip on the weather channel when that recurring shoulder pain decided to recur.  This time it recurred with alarming intensity.  The pain was so great that it yanked Fred to his hands and knees. An incredible fear materialized within Fred, and as he tried to reach the phone, he wondered if this was it. Was this how he would die?
         He couldn't reach the phone, but he managed to sit up somewhat against the couch in his living room. Sweat began dripping out of every pore in his body, and his heart had entered a state of intense palpitation. Barely aware, Fred felt as if his heart were trying to rip itself out of his body.          
          Fred glanced down, and sure enough, his heart was climbing out of the middle of his chest like a moth emerging from a coccoon.  Horrified, he tried to push it back in.  "Get your greasy hands off me old man", his heart protested, "I've been in there for 78 years and I'm breakin' out."  Fred kept pushing anyway, but he was too weak, and his heart easily escaped.
         Delirious and barely conscious, Fred watched as his heart stood up on his chest and brushed off a bit of excess blood. The little fella had two little arms and legs, eyes, ears, nose, and a mouth.           Fred couldn't believe it. 'What the hell’s going on?' he asked himself. Before anyone or anything could answer, Fred died. 
         Fred's heart, the triumphant little fucker that he was, marched up the middle of Fred's chest and bitch-slapped him once on each side of the face.  "That's for 78 years of forced labor!", the little heart said; and then, with a single nod of his head, Fred's heart stalked into the kitchen.
         It proceeded to peruse Fred and Clara's food offerings for a moment, before finally pouring itself a bowl of Cheerios. Then, with bowl in hand, it returned to the living room, plopped itself on the couch, and flipped on the TV. The weather channel was showing, and it was predicting rain.           Not one to pass up an oppurtunity for humour, the little heart splashed some milk on Fred's face. "Don't forget your umbrella", it said.

The End.