Bloom, one hundred-fourteen and still randy as a billy goat, tottered down the hall of the retirement home, following behind Nurse Jenny. He watched the sway of her hips in her slacks, and felt the customary century-old twinge in his crotch.
“Jenny!” he croaked in his old-man’s voice. “Is it time for my bath?”
She turned around, and shot him a narrow-eyed stare. “Don’t pretend to be senile with me, old man. You can bathe yourself.”
“Maybe I’ll fall down here and break my hip,” thought Bloom. “That’d earn me a sponge-bath from Jenny, certainly. It would be worth it.”
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