The evening was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after decades of shared life. Bert and Edna, eighty-seven and still inseparable, swayed gently on their porch swing, sipping tea that had gone cold. A pair of squirrels tussled over a Cheeto in the yard, and the setting sun painted the sky in warm hues.
Then Edna spoke. “Bert,” she said softly, “what’s left on your bucket list?”
Bert chuckled. “At my age, the bucket is the list. Mostly just hoping I don’t forget where I put my teeth tonight.”
Edna swatted his arm playfully. “Be serious. There must be something you’ve always wanted to do.”
Bert rubbed his chin. “Well… I always thought skydiving would be fun.”
Edna’s eyes widened. “Skydiving? Bert, you nearly fainted blowing out your birthday candles last year!”
He shrugged. “Even better. If I don’t survive, I’ll finally get to float around Jenkins’ house and slam doors at midnight.”
They laughed together, the way they had for fifty-five years. Then Edna’s smile turned sly—the same look she’d given him right before “accidentally” losing his favorite bowling trophy out the car window in 1965.
“Fine, you go jump out of a plane,” she said. “But I’ve got a confession.”
Bert’s heart skipped. “What kind of confession?”
Edna’s grin widened. “Remember how your recliner never sat straight?”
