Fictionlet
Greg hoisted the writing desk and looked to Isadora expectantly.
“You just lifted that like it was nothing!” Isadora said. “It must be nice to be young.”
“Where did you want me to move it to?” Greg asked.
“Don’t ever get old, m’boy,” Isadora continued without pause. “You don’t know how much you’ll miss being able to do things like lift desks, until suddenly you can’t do it any more.”
“This room? The living room?”
“After a while, all that keeps you going is getting to your next set of pills.” She pulled out a small pill organizer and opened a compartment, revealing a bright array of pills in various sizes, shapes, and colors — mostly pastel. “My blood’s too thick. So I take this one to thin it, except it thins it too much, so I take this one to thicken it back just a little. But that one puts my thyroid all out of whack, so I take this one to bring it back under control.”
“That is a lot,” Greg agreed, wincing slightly as the edges of the desk dug into the palms of his hands. “So where–”
“And this is just the mid-day bunch! You should see what I take at night so I can sleep! And this mask I have to put over my head to regulate my breathing at night.”
“Erm.”
“This is what science gets you! Sure, we’re all living longer, but at what cost, eh? I worked for years and years to build up my retirement, and now I’m just forking it all over to the drug companies. Old people are going broke right and left, but it’s a golden age for pharmacists!”
Greg finally put the table down with a puff of breath, figuring the only thing to do was to wait until the storm blew over.
“Not there,” Isadora said. “It goes at the top of the stairs.”
-The Gneech
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