They'll miss the good old days... by Bilo It was a quiet day in Manhattan 'old bloomers' retirement home. Nick Valensi or 'Nick the stick' as the nurses there called him, was gazing out of the large window, his watery blue eyes glinting wetly in the New York autumn sunshine. It was his 85th birthday, and he was told that his wife of many years, Amanda De Cadenet, was finally going to leave their little cottage downtown for a spell and visit him in the home. He smiled to himself, and remembered all the good times they'd had, bringing up her young daughter together, despite it being some other bloke’s kid. Nick hadn't minded that much, save for the fact she was a bit of a spoiled bitchy brat. 'Just like her mother' he smiled to himself. Like peas in a pod they were. Lovely. A young nurse named Chardonnay handed him his favourite photograph- it was many Christmases ago, the usual quiet affair- Amanda dancing on the tables in a drunken stupor, shouting obscenities at a smiling Nick and Albert. A tear welled in his eyes as he noticed that in the picture Amanda was flashing the cameraman slightly. He shook his head, but remembered that it wasn't as bad as the whole stripper fiasco. Not by half. But anyhow. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and by now his jeans, which the nurse had so kindly stitched him into earlier in the day, were starting to irritate him slightly, as well as his wife's lateness. Finally, at 4:36pm exactly, he heard the familiar sound of a bottle smashing against the wood of his room door. He rose slowly, painfully, and padded in his maroon converses to the door. He could tell it was her, she'd left the tell-tale purple lipstick mark on the door window. He gently pushed the door and, just as he suspected, there she was, in that cute little drunken mess she did so well. He leaned on one bony knee and heaved her up slowly, and dragged her into his room. He stopped for a minute, she'd gained a few pounds over the years, and it was a strain on his skinny arms. In one last heave he moved her to the chair beside his little bed, taking care not to rip her usual black lace top. He sat there for hours it seemed, gazing adoringly at his now passed out wife, wondering vaguely what her voice sounded like, as she was usually so high she couldn’t do anything but collapse or wail. Sometimes it was both, but sadly this time was the former. Eventually dinnertime arrived, and so began the process of stirring Amanda. However the efforts of both Chardonnay and the much-weakened Nick were in vain- it was agreed she would simply have to be left to ‘sleep it off’. Nick wiped a small tear from his eye shakily, and ate his dinner in silence, occasionally casting weary glances at the plump, slumped figure opposite him. Suddenly he caught his breath and smiled. That had stirred a memory- and, smiling to himself, he knew exactly what could be done to really have a happy birthday. He eased onto his feet and called out for the nurses. 20 minutes later, Nick was standing outside the Home, beaming from ear to ear at his feet. It had taken a lot of effort but they had really done it. He stepped back to admire his handiwork- there, lying in the gutter was his wife- her head leaning gracefully on the roadside, Nurse Chardonnay had really finished the scene by delicately placing an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle in her hand. As darkness began to fall, Nick looked fondly down at her through the now-drizzling rain, and muttered only to himself, ‘just like the good old days’. Nick woke up with a start, sweating in the half-light. Fuck, he thought, it was only a dream. He turned over onto his left side and saw the woman lying next to him, still in her clothes after a heavy night out. Oh-so silently he crept out of bed, gently wiped some drool off her chin, and left the room. And as he packed his bag and slipped out of the apartment, he shook his head at the tight pink lycra dress lying in the hallway and muttered to himself,'what the hell was I thinking?'.