Molly squeezed the throttle of her mobility scooter and leaned forward. The path lay clear of pedestrians, the bridge within sight. The race was on.

She glanced behind her. Damn. Jack was closer than she expected. Like a geriatric Biggles, he’d pulled the goggles of his canvas Korean War era flying helmet down. Its black communication ear cups stuck out like Frankenstein’s bolts, the chin straps flopping and flailing around his jaw.

Molly turned back to concentrate. Speeds like this could be dangerous. Not to her. There was never any danger to her. She was a pro, a veteran mobility scooter racer, undisputed champion of Acacia Lodge. But walkers and joggers had a habit of getting in the way.

Metallic blue, sleek, with a natty chrome trim and an even nattier chrome basket on the front, Jack’s Powerhorse 3000 had her attention from the day it arrived. The others had giggled and whispered behind their hands as she’d stalked around it in the common room. Jack had caught her studying it and winked. Cheeky old sod. Handsome though, in a corrugated sort of way. Not that there was anything wrong with a few wrinkles. They all had them. Skins like crumpled old shirts – comfortable, serviceable, but a bit thin and frayed. His eyes had never left her, as vibrantly blue as his Powerhorse. Vain, Molly had decided then. He’d chosen a scooter that matched his eyes. Still, it was nice to meet a man who cared about his looks. There weren’t many around these days.

She frowned and cocked her head, then grinned. Jack was loudly ba-da-bumming the theme from The Great Escape. The Powerhorse drew alongside. The Great Escape morphed into something that tickled her memory but refused to be named. Irritating man. It’d drive her mad now. He’d done it to her before – sat beside her in the common room with a book, humming a tune that wormed into her brain and squirmed around, nudging girlish memories into life. He’d winked at her then too, as if he’d known how annoyed she was but hadn’t cared. In the end, it was either leave or ask him the tune. Molly had asked. Fly Me to the Moon, he’d said, smiling. It had sounded like an invitation. She’d blushed like a virgin on her wedding night.

Her scooter let out an electrical whine. Molly patted the padded handlebar. The Comet 450 was a tough old duck. It had seen off many a challenger. Not that there had been many lately. Jack was the first to race in over seven months and the first in over three years she’d put to The Test. She hoped he’d pass. She glanced at the low battery indicator. Perfect.

After the corner, where they’d make the final turn toward the river and the Berrigan Street Bridge, the path curved like a woman’s figure – broad, narrow, broad. The Marilyn Monroe of footpaths. That’s where the danger lay. Whoever scootered into the narrow waist first, won. It was impossible to overtake on the bridge and the finish line was the sign at its eastern base.

The night before, Molly had dreamed of her and Jack racing neck and neck through the path’s womanly hips, jammed together like slot cars as they fought to reach the waist. She’d woken with her heart battering her ribs, praying that he’d do the right thing, hoping he’d prove himself.

She slid her eyes to the right. Jack grinned gummily back at her. She flicked her gaze to his shirt pocket. His dentures bulged out from his chest like a toothy tumour. A giggle bubbled. Silly man, but at least he was taking the race seriously. She liked a competitive man, a man with joie de vivre. They were few and far between at Acacia Lodge. But then, all men were few and far between at Acacia Lodge. God’s waiting room suffered a severe gender imbalance.

The other ladies – those who still had some life in them – had eyed Jack greedily on his arrival at the home, slopping their chops at his handsome, happy family, at his myriad grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. They’d seen how he walked tall and determined against the pursed-lipped pain of his arthritis, how he kept his remaining hair trimmed, his clothes modern. Jack wasn’t a cardigan man. No, even at eighty-seven, Jack was a chambray shirt and chino’s man. Only his dentures gave him grief, popping out like a snappy pink and white jack-in-the-box whenever he laughed, which was often. It didn’t embarrass him or anyone else at Acacia Lodge. Dentures gave everyone the yips. Damn things.

They’d danced, two weeks after his arrival, in the common room after morning tea. A slow waltz to music from the old record player another resident had brought in years before. He’d asked. She’d accepted. They swayed to Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Opposing hands cupped together, her palm and fingers splayed on his shoulder, his hand pleasant and warm on her waist. Lovely. Jealousy is a curse, she’d told her chuntering, goggling rivals as she swanned past them later, on the way to her room.

As they danced, he’d bent his head close to her ear, his chest close to hers, smelling of the nursing home laundry but also of something spicy, something Molly hadn’t smelt for a very long time – the smell of a healthy, alive male. She’d breathed him in the way an asthmatic sucks on an inhaler – deep and long, then holding her breath. He’d whispered to her, his words aromatic with the sweetened tea they’d drunk. Your room or mine, he’d asked, and she’d shivered with the deliciousness of it before saying no. Jack had to pass The Test first. It was important.

They reached the path’s hips. The Powerhorse drew fractionally ahead. Molly let out a frustrated growl as her scooter protested the climb and her battery light flashed brighter. Too soon, too soon.

She crouched forward. It was important to play the part. A smooth silhouette made for efficient aerodynamics and, according to her clever grandson, looked ‘boss’. Molly liked the idea of that.

The waist neared. A startled jogger stopped on the bridge’s crest and stared at them. Jack didn’t slow, neither did she. The jogger would have to jump. Molly ignored the flashing battery light. They were only feet away from the waist. Jack nudged in front then shot ahead as the Comet 450 gave a distorted electric moan and whirred to a stop, dead from overexertion.

Molly’s eyes watered as the Powerhorse surged on, its brakelights unlit. She leaned her head against the handlebar, swallowing her burning disappointment, thinking of yet more lonely nights.

A hand touched her shoulder. It was Jack. His teeth were back in, the flying helmet off, his sparkly blue eyes dark with concern. Are you all right? he asked. Molly stared at him and then nodded. She was more than all right. She was wonderful. She was ecstatic. He’d passed, but then she’d always known he would.  Race or no race, a true gentleman would never abandon his lady love by the side of the road. Jack had proven his honour.

My room, she said when she’d regained her breath.

He grinned and his teeth popped out, but she didn’t care. Love was very forgiving. At any age.

©2018 Cathryn Hein