Micky♥

The rubber tires of the wheelchair squeaked down the highly polished corridor of Cherry Blossom House Nursing Home. Mona was being treated to an afternoon in the sun room. She was glad of this. The others were gathering for a game of BINGO! No doubt, Mr Proctor would ruin it, like he always did, insisting on shouting out for non-existent lines instead of turning up his hearing aid.

Warm spots of Miami sunlight dappled her skin as she was wheeled into the vaulted space. Only the sonorous snores and grumbles of one other occupant greeted her, along with the delicate tweet of birdsong through an open window. Sebastian, the porter, put her brakes on overlooking the outdoor birdbath, and she tried to focus on a Spot-Breasted Oriole, rather than the rhythmic engine of her sleeping neighbor.

She lasted about five minutes. Patience had never been a strong suit with her. Even as a child she had got into all sorts of scrapes due to her hotheaded impulsiveness. Mona rose onto seldom used legs, grabbed a pillow from one of the wicker chairs. She aimed the pillow at his head and let it fly. A tuft of white hair stood proud as a peacock where it whizzed past him. He woke with a snort and a start. "Hey! What did you do that for?"

"For the sake of the wildlife. Your snoring is scaring off my birds."

"I don't snore." He leaned back into his chair with a satisfied smile that added to the creases around his cobalt blue eyes, folded his arms across his chest and stared at her, up and down like a tiger might examine its dinner.

Mona didn't like that. She was just about to draw herself up to the full majestic splendor of do-not-mess-with-me West Indian womanhood when cold, hard, recognition stomped in. "Oh, my stars! You're never Micky Micklethwaite, are you?"

"I am, madam. Not that I'd take your word for it, seeing as though you don't even know when a man's snoring or just resting his eyelids."

But Mona had all but forgotten this now. She shushed him with a wave of her hand, folding herself into the wicker chair next to him. "I remember you in Dreaming of Kitty -- oh, you were so handsome back then."

"And now I'm a creased-up old fart, eh?"

Mona giggled, like the school girl she had once been a lifetime ago. Stifling her giggles, she said, "And even though you broke Barbara Stanwyck's heart in Roses for June, I still thought you were finer than Gable. More class, you know?"

"It wasn't hard to out class Clark on the set."

Both paused to reassess their opening salvos. Nothing was said, but there didn't need to be. The two of them fell into a companionable and friendly silence. Mona broke the companionable silence first, "What's a gentleman actor like you doing in a place like this?"

"You try that line with all the new fellas?"

Mona shone. It had been a while since her cheeks had glowed because of a man. Dear old Jeff had been gone fifteen years since, and at least fifteen years previous to those since such silliness last turned her head. But then Jeff hadn't been Micky Micklethwaite, star of the silver screen. "Hush your mouth, you dirty old man. I don't even like you. I mean, you're supposed to be a movie star. Why aren't you living in Beverly Hills with a pretty blond nurse bringing your pills?"

"Pretty blond nurses helped me spend all my money. This is home now." He swept his arms to encompass the glazed walls and dome of the sun room.

"I got some bad news for you, Micky -- only blond nurse around here is Sebastian, and I don't think you're his type."

"Then I'll have to go for any dark and mysterious brunettes that may come my way."

"I'll let them know you're coming."

"You do that."

"I said I will."

"Good."

They settled into each other's company again, watching the sun slope off behind the trees in the garden. After a few minutes, Mona rose slowly and headed off to her wheelchair.

"Where are you running off to?" Micky called over to her.

"I ain't running. I'm going to fetch my chair."

"You had a perfectly good one here."

"The others will be in soon. It will be time for supper before you know it."

"And?"

"And this is the best damn wheeler I've had since I got here -- I am not letting some oldie steal it away from me."

She grabbed the handles and wheeled it over. She misjudged the spot to park it in and bumped her vacated wicker chair. The dried old stems creaked in protest until Micky got up and moved it over to accommodate Mona's wheels.

"You're welcome," he said, sarcastically.

"If you wanted a thank you, you should have helped me wheel it over."

"I am not a mind reader. I didn't know that constituted a Porsche around here."

"Are you mocking me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

"Good. Watch your birds."

Mona edged her wheels closer to Micky's chair. He smelled of Old Spice. She liked Old Spice. She could see past his paper thin skin, liver spots and wrinkles. He was still a star: shining, but not as bright as he once shone. She started rummaging around in her knitting bag, hunting for a scrap of paper and a pen. She found an old seed packet and a blunt eyeliner, and thrust them at him.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'What?' I want your autograph."

"Lady, are you for real?"

"Sure!" Mona narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not one of those movie stars, are you, Micky? One of those who is rude to his fans?"

Micky chortled, took the eyeliner and wrote his name across the picture of prize-winning marigolds. He even finished it with a little love heart, just the way he'd done all those years ago on the red carpet.

"And you didn't even make it out to me." She sounded disappointed, and just a little embarrassed. Micky reached over to her chair and placed his hand on her knee. She didn't bat it away.

"I couldn't make it out to you, because you haven't told me your name," he said.

"Mona Morgan."

"You sound just like a movie star."

"Are you laughing at me, Micky Micklethwaite?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, I'd love to know what's so damn funny. Maybe you meet movie stars all the time, but I don't, and I'll be damned if I ain't going to get your autograph before you up and die on me, or something. Could be worth a lot on eBay."

"You do a lot of damning for a matronly woman, Mona. I can't have my girl cussing like a navy boy."

Mona preened. The others were starting to come in now, picking up old conversations along with old games of checkers. Mona placed her hand on top of Micky's, and realized that Barbara Stanwyck wasn't a fool to get her heart broken, after all.

(1192 words)