She was stuck in her room. She was over seventy, possibly over eighty. She wasn't quite sure. She didn't quite care because she didn't want to know. It was hard for her to get out--her husband had died over ten years ago, and she had no real business with the outside world.
Once a week, she would see her friends for lunch. Every Monday at the same little restaurant, ordering the same dish of food, talking about the same ol' "remember the times when..." stories. She looked forward to them. They were constant, never changing, always blissfully stuck there in perpetual memory. Her money was dwindling, due to various trips to the hospital for her failing eyes, knees, liver, and migraines. Her interest in her ceiling waned. And her appetite was slowly diminishing. But her friends stayed the same, and so she felt the same, and that was what an old lady needed.
She lost interest in shopping when she realized that a woman her age couldn't wear fishnet stockings anymore without getting disapproving scowls and wild assumptions. She realized that a bit too late, but -- she shrugged -- she had a great time wearing them. And dangnabbit if her legs weren't still fabulous enough to wear them!
She misses shopping, but she doesn't like the old-lady fashion nowadays. The skirts are too long, and the blouses are horrendous. She wears white now. All white. Like an angel.
The door opens and she moves her gaze from the ceiling to the intruders.
"It's time to take your medication, Auntie Penny."
They always call her 'Auntie'. She insisted on it. After all, "Grandma" made her sound and feel old.
"Don't struggle now, Auntie. You'll hurt yourself. Just open your mouth and swallow."
“Can I go shopping?” she asked them.
They didn’t reply.
She misses shopping. She wears white now. All white. Like an angel.
And she hates it.
And she hates it.
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