On a quiet Sunday evening, Bert and Edna—married fifty-five years—rock gently on their porch swing, sipping lukewarm tea while squirrels squabble over a rogue Cheeto. The sun dips low, casting golden light across their yard. Then, out of nowhere, Edna breaks the silence.
He peers over his glasses.
“Bucket lists? Edna, I’m eighty-seven. My biggest ambition is remembering where I left my pants.”
She chuckles.
“No, silly. I mean dreams we’ve never dared. Things we want to do before we go.”
Bert strokes his chin.
“Well… I’ve always wanted to skydive.”
Edna’s eyes widen.
“You? You nearly faint tying your shoes!”
“Imagine me landing in the neighbor’s garden. I’ve always wanted to haunt him.”
They laugh. Edna nods.
“Fine. You skydive. I’ll do mine.”
Bert squints.
“And what’s yours?”
That mischievous sparkle returns.
“Remember your recliner that leaned left for twenty years?”
“After you spilled grape soda on my new curtains in ’89, I jammed a spatula under one leg.”
Bert gasps.
“You monster!”
She sips her tea.
“And the remote that only played Hallmark movies? I stuck a penny in the battery compartment.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing says revenge like five years of slow-motion snowball fights and mistletoe drama.”
Bert leans back, smirking.
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