Tom lowered his book and turned toward Peggy. Peggy lowered her own book and bit her lower lip. Why was it that she could remember what she had for breakfast every day this week, could even remember what she was wearing on most of those days, but couldn’t remember if she had blown out the candle in the living room? Is this what middle age is? she wondered. The loss of short-term memory? She hoped not. She was forgetful enough as it was; she didn’t need to help it along. “Yes,” she said finally. Then: “No. I don’t know.” Peggy watched as Tom laid his hand on top of his book. She noticed the wrinkles on his fingers, the white hairs on his knuckles, and thought, We’ve gotten old, how did this happen? He looked at her fully now. “Well,” he said, “which is it?” “Huh?” She looked at him quizzically; her own book had slumped forward and was now lying open on her chest.
