Placing her wrinkled lips around the sad fibrous old penis, Helene Coppick reflected that this was not the way she’d wanted to spend her Golden Years. Mr. McAfee must have sensed her hesitation, because his bony fingers pressed down on the top of her head to prompt her, and, steeling herself, she dutifully got to work. She tried every technique she knew, with no response, but finally, after twenty minutes of sustained tongue action, a thin salty trickle leaked out from his semi-erect organ, and he was done.

Taking out a handkerchief, she expelled into the cloth what she’d been holding in her mouth, then stood. Like the majority of units at the assisted living center, Mr. McAfee’s room was small. Never having had a family, his was even more depressing than most, as there were no photos displayed, nothing hanging on the walls, and the only pieces of furniture were the bed, television and dresser that came with the unit.

After finishing, he always seemed disgusted by her, and he gestured toward the billfold on top of the dresser. “Get yourself a ten,” he told her. “I’ll see you next week.”

Knowing he didn’t like her to talk, she nodded, extracted the money and left his room. Her own room was just down the hall, and she walked past two women in wheelchairs parked along the side of the corridor and an attendant carrying a tray of medications before unlocking and opening her door, stepping inside.

Heading immediately into the bathroom, she rinsed out for a full two minutes with Listerine, then brushed her teeth and gargled with the mouthwash one more time. Taking out the soiled handkerchief, Helene scrubbed it with soap in the sink, hanging it on the towel rack to dry. She looked at herself in the mirror before turning away, unable to meet her own eyes.

She placed the ten dollar bill in the pocketbook in her purse.

Her own unit was homey, filled with furniture and decorations from her old house, and she settled into her flowered couch, turning on the television, trying not to think about what had just transpired. On the end table next to her was a framed photo of her and Orville, her late husband, standing in front of a redwood tree. It was her favorite picture of the two of them, taken by a nice young woman to whom Orville had passed their camera. She’d been fifty and he’d been fifty-five, and as far as she was concerned, neither of them had ever looked better.

She refused to look at the picture now, too ashamed to subject herself to Orville’s Kodak-frozen gaze.

Helene closed her eyes, overcome as always by a feeling of sadness as she thought about the series of events that had led her here to Senior Acres.