Two Men on the Bench

An old man sat park bench with his son, kvetching about his healthcare worker.

“You know what she did to me this morning?” asked the old man. “She told me to have a nice day! Who is she to tell me how to live my life?”

“That’s terrible,” said his son, “absolutely terrible. Men who have lived as long as you should be able to have whatever kind of day they want.”

“Exactly! And then she had to nerve to say she’d see me later! What if I don’t want to see her?”

“What if she doesn’t want you to see her? Maybe it was a warning that she’d be watching you.”

“What could there possibly be left to watch? She already comes and bathes me every single day.”

“Ah, so that’s why you smell like a flower.”

“A flower?!”

“Yeah, you smell all nice and… clean.”

“Bah, there you go! A man’s not supposed to smell like a morning daisy, he should smell like whiskey or smoke or something manly. How am I supposed to smell manly if she keeps washing me?”

“Good point, good point. I shudder to think what else she does to you and your manliness.”

“Well, that’s clearly not all. Almost every day she makes me tell her stories about my life like I’m a goddamn library. And she sits there and listens and asks questions.”

“Clearly an awful person, that one.”

“Exactly. She says she’s genuinely interested, that she thinks my stories are funny.”

“Like a knife through the heart.”

“And speaking of flowers… she keeps bringing me flowers she picked on the way to my house! Says they liven up the place and hopes they’ll add some sunshine to my life.”

“She’s decorating the place before you’ve even keeled over!”

“Exactly! I tell ya, I don’t know why she keeps coming.”

“Me neither, dad, me neither…. But I’m glad she does.”

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