Living to Be a Hundred

Abstract

living room filled the kitchen. Chairs inverted on chairs surrounded the dining table. A long tan couch, stripped of its cushions, blocked the hall. In our bedroom, beside the dresser, a wooden coffee table stood upright like a basset hound begging for scraps. On our knees in the emptied living room, we pieced together carpet remnants. I aligned a wide strip of tape, bending low to hold it, my shirt wrinkling against my back like molting skin. Harvis applied heat with Linda's travel-iron, while she held the odd-shaped pieces together. We inched across the floor, inhaling the odors of scorched glue, new carpet, our own sweating bodies. An oscillating fan vibrated against the wall every fifteen seconds, the air from it blocked by Mix, our sleeping golden retriever.