Background
Thirty something, Jameson meets senior citizen, Iris. They bond over coffee. This is the story of their unlikely friendship.
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This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter will be marked to show who is narrating.
So far, Jameson has filed for divorce from his estranged wife, Claire. He has gone with his senior citizen friend, Iris, to her doctor. It is finally clear to him just how sick she is.
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IRIS
Sometimes I can predict what is going to come out of Gert's mouth, and then there are times when I am speechless.
"Gert, you know I have heart issues. I've made that no secret."
Gert pauses setting the table and knits her brow. "Did something happen?"
I try to think of the simplest way to tell her where I'm at now. I don't want her going all hysterical on me. "I haven't much longer. My heart is starting to shut down on me."
I wait for the tears. Instead, she stiffens and nods curtly. "I can't say that I'm surprised. You've become quite the spectacle with this May-December thing going on."
"Are you talking about Jameson?"
"I don't know, am I?"
"Good Lord, Gert. He's young enough to be my grandson." I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but if I do, I'll start that damned coughing.
"This town has eyes. People talk."
I roll my eyes. "I know it has eyes. Plenty of them. What it lacks is brains and common sense. You have your facts mixed up."
This time it's Gertrude who rolls her eyes. "Someone saw the two of you holding hands in the coffee shop."
"He's going through something. I'm going through something. He's my friend, Gert. End of story."
"That's not how it appears. And why is this the first I'm hearing about him?"
"I've mentioned him before. Countless times, actually."
Gert sets the plates down and puts her hands on her hips. "Well, Millie Stanforth, you know that terrible soprano in the choir, she said that you and he were ... embracing on the street. Now, while Millie may not be able to carry a tune in a bucket, she does not lie."
"No, she wasn't lying. She did misinterpret what she saw and she made up what she wanted to see. She's a gossip and you, Gert, are no better because you believed it. And another thing. I don't give a damn what these small minded, malicious people think."
"Apparently, not."
I hold up my hand. "Shut it, Gert, and let me finish. This young man has come into my life when I needed it most. He is my friend ... that is it. So, if you would rather believe this rubbish that is being said, have at it."
Gertrude's eyes are wide. She's never been one to stand her ground. "I never said I believed it."
"It certainly sounded like it to me. So, pick a lane. You either believe that I'm telling you the truth or I'm some harlot who's, ugh, I can't even finish the statement."
Gertrude shrugs as if she's the one offering the olive branch.
After small talk and dinner, we make our way over to the couch and turn on the television. We watch Wheel of Fortune in silence. Midway through Jeopardy, Gertrude looks over. "I miss Alec Trebec. He was so handsome."
I accept the olive branch. "He was very handsome, indeed."
Most friendships would have ended after a dressing down like the one I gave her. But old birds like us, we just flap our wings and squawk a bit. Then we settle in to watch television.
It isn't until after she leaves that I think about what she said. Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. Was my fifteen minutes spent as a geriatric harlot? I laugh out loud at the thought. Coughing be damned, that's funny.
