Come On Grandpa- Fuck Me- -

They watched together, Maya explaining who the YouTubers were, Frank explaining who Groucho was. And somehow, in the messy middle, they found the same wavelength.

"Did you have phones?" Maya asked, pedaling beside him.

"Come on, grandpa," Maya said, offering her hand. Come on grandpa- fuck me-

"Come on, grandpa," Maya said, handing him the remote. "You try."

Frank smiled. He walked across the room, turned a dial on the old radio he'd fixed up, and click-click-click , the room filled with swing music. They watched together, Maya explaining who the YouTubers

He read it aloud, his voice cracking with laughter. The poem was ridiculous—rhyming "trombone" with "telephone," describing his snoring as a "contented walrus with a megaphone." Maya giggled, then laughed, then cried a little, watching her stoic, remote-control-fumbling grandpa transform into a storyteller, his eyes bright with memory.

He pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper. "Listen to this. She wrote it for my fortieth birthday. It’s a poem called 'Ode to My Husband's Snoring.'" "Come on, grandpa," Maya said, offering her hand

Frank led her to the garage, past the dusty elliptical machine, to a corner she’d always assumed was for spiders. He pulled a canvas tarp off two gleaming things: vintage bicycles. A cherry-red Schwinn and a sky-blue Raleigh.