“Louise,” Rose said, shuffling the Brussels sprouts to one side of her plate, “I saved myself until my wedding night.”
Louise put her fork down. She raised her eyebrows and puckered her lips. “And several years beyond, I suppose,” Louise said.
“No, Herbie and I had our special time of the evening for years. Right after Walter Cronkite and just before dinner. He called it Appetizers and Hors d’Oeuvres.”
“Are you telling me, Rose Lindenhurst,” Louise said, shaking her head, “that you did it … every night?”
“Oh, not every night. There was that one time in the 1980s when Ronald Reagan was shot. And then when Herbie had to go in for that gall bladder removal. We kept a record of the exceptions in the dresser’s bottom drawer. Just those two.”
“And when was your last time, oh romantic one?” Louise shoveled in a mouthful of Brussels sprouts – her favorites, Rose knew.
Rose looked down at her plate. Should she tell Louise? They’d only been roommates for three months.
“If you must know,” Rose said, “We were doing it the evening Herbie had his heart attack. You should’ve seen the look on the paramedics faces when they came.”
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