In the morning his fingertips were numb, tingling as if still asleep. While Emily went to put on coffee and water Rufus, he opened and closed his hands like a transplant patient, shook them like a swimmer on the starting block, trying to get some circulation going.
Though it regularly happened at home, he blamed the bed, a double, much narrower than their king, with a groove worn down the middle that pushed them together. It was hard to get comfortable, a problem made worse by his hips hurting, and his back, and his bad knee. All night he shifted, trying to find the right position, finally settling on his left side, spooning Emily with his left arm stretched high over her head, behind her pillows, and then in the morning his shoulder hurt and his fingers were numb. It wasn’t anything new or surprising, just another annoying reminder of the body’s inevitable decline.
The first few times it happened, he’d told Emily.
“That’s not good,” she said, and the following Sunday passed him a Parade magazine with an article listing “The Five Warning Signs of a Heart Attack.” Yes, his cholesterol numbers were terrible, but even Dr. Runco agreed, as a symptom, indigestion was too broad. Emily didn’t care. For months she had Henry taking baby aspirin until another study refuted the claim.
He heard her in the bathroom. The toilet flushed, followed by the squeak of the faucet and water running, then the squeak again. He kneaded his fingers, wringing them until the feeling returned. When she opened the door to let Rufus in, he was able to pull the covers aside and invite her back to bed. Morning had been their time, a bar of pure light from the east window warming her skin.
“It’s eight-thirty,” she said. “I’m going to go take my shower.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
To assuage his disappointment, she leaned across her pillows and gave him a kiss, automatically fending off his hand.
“And take that dog with you.”
“I will,” she said, collecting her towels.
When she was gone, he stretched out, sprawled across the bed, wide awake, flexing his fingers. His arthritis was worse than the numbness, being permanent. Every day they hurt, but he would never say that. She worried enough. There was no point upsetting her by telling her something she already knew.