“We are still young,” Delilah announces with pride and her signature lack of grasping the significance of words. Avi eyes her sceptically. The white in his eyes glistening a little. Not too old for proper ocular biology at work. “Define young, baby.” Triumphantly, Delilah nods and touches Avi’s arm in her excitement. “Under 60 years old. Calling each other pet names that aren’t too cheesy. Lighting candles for dinner. Sitting on the ground, right now, with wine and stale bread. This is young.”
“What about tomorrow, when I bathe my son and pay bills and notice a slight limp because I hurt my legs sitting on the ground like this? What if I don’t feel young?” Delilah licks her lips in preparation. “You cannot create an alternate reality, in which you deny me what I need to hear. Thus, you will still be young tomorrow and I will be as well.” She needs Avi to be young, he knows, as the alternative would shrink their time together to an unbearably tiny piece.