“I’ll do the cooking, he decided, to keep busy and not let too much show before I’m ready to talk to Ollie”, he thought. “You know the hospice very well, Dad,” she said, “I’ve also got to know them pretty well. We can talk about me some other time. “Thank you for that; it can’t be easy for you to talk about it.”
“I’m glad I told you, Dad. It’s not an exaggeration that that was more worry to him than his own health. Cancer. “We are so compatible that it’s ridiculous,” he smiled, and then, almost to himself, “we’re like an old married couple; we can almost read each other’s thoughts” and felt the warmth of her hand quietly settling on his as they each sipped their wine. Then I’ll make a decision. So confess; make a clean…umm…breast of it” Pete said, and chuckled at his pun. She could hardly hear his quiet words: “…prostate…treatable…very hopeful…”. Five years. With the most natural gesture his arm reached around her and pulled her closer to him. As the vegetables were cooking he drew a small plate of charcuterie from the fridge, poured himself a glass of pinot and sat at the table. I mean, I’ve heard that some men, after treatment, well, you know…”
“Limp dick syndrome, you mean?” laughed Pete.
