The beer stood on the dining room table—far removed from the living room couch—but Earl tried to reach for it anyway.
“Come on…” he said, straining his psyche, leaning on his walker for support.
The beer can didn’t move.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this crap,” Earl muttered, returning to reruns of Fringe.
For seventy years, Earl had been trying. On pizza boxes, hamburgers, phones.
It just wasn’t going to happen.
Dryness tickled his throat again, and he turned back beerward, reaching.
Aluminum hurtled through the air toward his hand.
The coroner said it was a heart attack.
Author’s Note: Come on. Admit it. You’ve tried it. We all have. But what if it suddenly worked?