Bananas Foster by Sandra Murphy

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Everybody has “those days.” The ones where you realize that things aren't what they used to be and may never be again.

So you trek off to the doctor's office for a tonic or pill and hope for the best. When the doctor starts with "you're getting older," it's never going to end well. And, if he's going to prescribe "doing something you used to really enjoy," he'd better know what that was before putting the idea in your mind. Some therapies aren't really as helpful as they appear.

A short story from the author of Superstition and Sweet Tea and Deviled Eggs.


“That little twit! Who does he think he is?” Bernice yelled as she stomped around the bedroom. “He looks like he’s twelve years old and he’s going to tell me I’m crazy? I should’ve just smacked him!”

“He didn’t say you were crazy. He said you’re getting older. He probably talks like that to all the old people.” Ken edged toward the door. Saying “old” had been a mistake.

Bernice came at him like a heat-seeking missile, arms pin wheeling and one finger pointing. At least it was the index finger. Judging by the color of her face, her blood pressure medicine was failing to keep pace with her rant. “Old? I can still get pantyhose on without any help. I don’t wear raggedy old granny panties. And colored bras—who do you know who has more colored bras than I do, I’d like to know? Old women wear white underwear.” Bernice went on. “I work at the hospital as a Pink Lady. Do you think they let crazy people do that? They don’t think I’m old!”

Ken saw a way out of the conversation. “Bernice, it’s almost time for your shift. Shouldn’t you be getting all pinked up?”

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