The routine of what might be called the safe, predictable life has a way of wearing down wives and husbands. Kill myself? I’d say I was perfectly alive that day on the boardwalk. I’m sure glad I didn’t take seriously those people who predicted, “Roller‐blade? You’re nearly sixty! You’ll kill yourself!” When I recall the soft call of support, I smile. When I think of my husband as a safe stop‐ping place, I smile. Now, whenever I put on my skates, I hear the young voice saying, “Cool blades,” and I smile. I thought they were completely absorbed by the inch‐by‐inch disappearance of the day, but as I moved past, almost out of earshot, I heard the soft call of support: “You go, girl!” To acknowledge, I signaled a “thumbs up” and continued on. Four women nested there comfortably in that distinctly female way of companionable silence. But out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a bicycle surrey pulled up close to the boardwalk. Lost in the exquisite rhythm and the elegant air, I almost missed them. I hoisted myself off the bench to make the most of the fading light. Then the sunset zealots began converging like football fans on Super Bowl Sunday. My husband and I said in unison, “Cool blades?” And we laughed. The last, a young man of about thirteen, looked admiringly at my skates, bent down, and murmured just so we could hear, “Cool blades.” Then he picked up his pace to catch his friends. Some teenagers sauntered past, talking quietly among themselves. I sat for a while on the bench enjoying the moment.
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