I looked up from the table, and my eyes found hers. It was fate.

“A-36,” the announcer called, but I didn’t even have to look at my card to know it was my lucky day.

She played it coy, of course. Looked away. Began re-stacking her tokens. A seemingly innocent gesture, but I could read between the lines: No arthritis.

The dance had begun.

I pulled a pen from my breast pocket and “accidentally” dropped it. I bent to retrieve it, and my new hip didn’t so much as squeak. I snuck a glance at the object of my affection. Caught a glimpse of her gray tongue darting across her lips.

The wait until evening leisure time was agony. I tried to distract myself, but my mind inevitably wandered back to picturing what laid beneath her purple pantsuit. Imagining what it would be like to trace the creases in her breasts. Dreaming of her warm, dry embrace. I could feel my heart race, and my breath catch in my throat.

Next thing I remember is waking up in this hospital bed.

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