Age

You know a scary thought? Ourselves in 50 years.

The other afternoon, I was at work and an older man came in with his equally elderly wife. Time's inevitable hash marks were abundant on both of their faces. I knew something was wrong with him when he stopped for a few moments too long in the automatic doorway, causing the receipts on the counter to flutter about aimlessly like gulls on a beach. I looked to the source of the wind, and saw the man, hunched over, staring at me, and glub-glub-glubbing like a fish. I said hello, he said nothing. Although, he did smile...and I must say, it reminded me of a gondola. Thin, wide, and upturned. Unsure of how to respond, I returned a modest grin and went about my business.

After approximately 20 minutes of meandering, the old couple arrived at the counter, ready to check out. It was relatively unremarkable, until I finished ringing them up. He stayed for a moment too long, and then pushed a basket full of cookies to me. The woman laughed nervously and looked to me for understanding. I played the neanderthal-esque cashier and continued smiling. He pushed the basket closer to me, this time with a more aggravated expression. The corners of his lips began to turn down, no longer resembling his erstwhile grin. Hoping to keep things lighthearted, I laughed nervously, asking if he was going to be able to eat all of those. His wife began to pull at his jacket. Lifting his frail and spotted hand into the air, he shooed her. She pulled again. "You can't have those," she said, "it's time to go." He began to shake his head, and she tugged once more.

Like an earthquake, I could feel it before I actually saw its effects. He slammed his fist onto the steel counter, causing receipts to fly once again. I could see the blood flee from his hands until his once pink fist was completely white. "Goddamnit," he spewed, "I'll go when I please!" The man tore at her paper thin wrists and shoved her aside. And in that moment, I saw Time make five more hash marks on her face.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. I had no idea what to do.

Like a dog, she slowly followed her master, tail tucked under her floor length skirt. I watched them as the doors shut. She shook her head in shame. "You embarrassed me," she cried. He said nothing, but stood there, stoic and stunted. She pressed her recently bruised hands to her face, and then placed one on the nape of his neck, the other to his forearm, and they began walking.

I would have continued to watch, but was interrupted by a gaggle of girls asking for job applications.

I assumed the man suffered from Alzheimer's or Dementia and was in the throes of a rather violent bout with it. And then I wondered, who would I rather be? The old man who wakes every morning to a sagging and decrepit body, not realizing who he is, or what that sallow skin even represents? Or the haggard woman who is reminded daily of her age? Which is worse: blindness or sight?

But, I suppose it ultimately doesn't matter how we go into the night, for it will always be dark.