A freak lightning strike swaps an old man into a young woman’s body where he’s forced to fake his way through her life in Do-Over, available on Smashwords, Amazon, or Bodyswapstories.
Eugene raised the spoon holding the mushed-up glop to his mouth with trembling fingers. A fleck slipped off the spoon and landed onto the table with a wet splat. The remaining mess made it into his mouth where he gummed it slowly. It had the taste of wet carpet but supposedly contained all the important nutrients he needed.
At 100 years old, Eugene wasn’t sure that he needed many nutrients. But the day nurse, Avery, promised that if he ate it all she’d give him a glass of his favorite prune juice. Being old really was like being a baby again in many ways.
He finally finished the glop and dropped the spoon back into the bowl with a clatter. He picked up the napkin and wiped his papery lips as Avery swooped over to the table.
“Very good, Eugene,” she cooed.
She plucked the bowl from the table and emptied it into the sink before turning and opening the refrigerator. Her back to Eugene, she bent over and rummaged through for his juice. Eugene stared blankly on. There was a time when he would have wanted nothing more than to grab those ample butt cheeks and squeeze. Hell, in his prime he would have smooth-talked his way into her bed within the first five minutes of meeting her. But now even the thought of her legs wrapped around him, her face contorted in pleasure didn’t cause so much as a stir in his pants. These days he was more concerned with getting up than getting off. Sometimes he missed the wanting.
Nurse Avery poured him some juice in a plastic cup and set it in front of him. He drank it himself, glad that he could still do that at least. It was unfortunate that he’d misplaced his dentures and so was at Avery’s mercy for dinner. No doubt they’d be found sitting near the bedside table or out on the porch. She’d gently chastise him for leaving them there but he’d have no memory of doing it.
As she cleaned up the kitchen, Eugene pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Avery rushed over to help him but he shooed her away.
“I can still walk,” he mumbled. God, he even sounded like a cranky old man.
He leaned on his walker and hobbled through the house to the living room, where he collapsed in the yellow armchair in front of the television. The television was still on, muted but turned to some godawful daytime talk show. Television was always awful during the afternoon. One of his sons had given him a digital doodad for his birthday that could let him watch movies over the internet but Eugene couldn’t figure out the controls. So instead he unmuted the television and watched whatever dreck happened to be on.
What happened to the good old days where you could have an entire sitcom based around a talking horse? That was clean, wholesome fun for the whole family. Onscreen today was some heavily made-up woman interviewing some scantily-clad young teen. Back in Eugene’s day it would have been two men in suits discussing something deadly serious like war or sports, not whatever brand of makeup the two women were trying to hock.
Eugene scratched his wrinkled chin and folded his liver-spotted hands across his stomach. He sat back and let the meaningless babble wash over him. The sunlight fell through the window and onto his lap, making him drowsily warm. The day was peaceful, the soothing sounds of chirping birds broken only occasionally by the whoosh of traffic.
This was what his life had come to. His children barely visited. His wife was long gone. His friends had passed away or been hospitalized. Eugene supposed he should have been grateful to be in his own house instead of a nursing home, though he knew his sons were worried about him. Why else would they have gotten the nurse to come over and help out for a few hours each day? Eugene was sure he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, though it was nice having someone else rattling about in the house with him.
Someone shook him gently and he opened his eyes, unaware of having fallen asleep. Avery was kneeling next to him. He wiped a spot of drool from his mouth, embarrassed at his appearance. Even at 100 he still wanted to impress people.
“I’m going to head out now, Eugene. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks,” he croaked.
She smiled and patted his arm soothingly. “There’s some soup in the fridge. I’ve left instructions on how to heat it up on the counter. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” Eugene nodded.
When Avery left Eugene heaved himself out of the armchair and stood on unsteady legs. He hobbled to the front door using his walker. It was his usual routine: lunch, nap in front of the television, sit outside on the porch. He felt it was important to have routines. It gave him a sense of purpose.
Eugene settled into the wooden rocking chair out on the porch. It creaked gently as it took his weight. He leaned back and gazed out at the street. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to drop in the sky. The porch was still shrouded from the worst of the sun by the steel roof but soon the sun would be low enough in the sky to peek underneath and land on him.
He was rocking on his chair when a beaten up red sedan pulled up in front of the neighbor’s house. The neighbor’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Victoria, hopped out. The driver—presumably her boyfriend—said something that made her laugh and she turned around and leaned in through the window to give him a kiss.
Victoria stood and waved at the car as it drove away. Then she turned and pushed her silky coffee-brown hair out of her eyes. She saw Eugene and waved to him.
“Hola, Eugene,” she chirped as she strolled up the walkway to her house.
“Hi, Victoria,” Eugene called out with his weak voice.
She sashayed up the path and Eugene did his best not to stare. Victoria had beautiful caramel skin. Her face was cute, with a soft nose and dark, mysterious eyes. The hint of an impish smile floated on her lips. She wore tight jeans that seemed painted on to her wonderfully curvy hips and shapely legs. But most noticeable of all were her truly enormous breasts. Her red V-neck tee shirt strained to contain them and they bounced slightly with each step. Eugene could almost maybe sort of feel that old wanting.
If Eugene had only been 80 years younger…
And then she was past him and into her house. Eugene remained on the porch as the sun set and clouds started to fill the sky. He could smell rain approaching. Far off in the distance a low cloud lit up with a shock of lightning. Seconds later the low rumble of thunder reached Eugene’s ears.
He heaved himself out of his rocker and slowly made his way back into the house. Eugene tottered around making sure all the windows were closed as the thunder from the storm grew louder. The next boom rattled the windows and rain pelted down outside.
Eugene hunkered in his armchair and turned up the volume on the television to try to drown out the noise. The other of his sons had gifted him a headset that was supposed to connect to the television to help Eugene—whose hearing wasn’t great on the best of days—but Eugene had forgotten how to work it. He settled for cranking up the volume.
2
There was a commercial playing when someone knocked on his door. He’d been so engrossed in the news—Murder! War! Taxes! —that he hadn’t even noticed the lull in the storm.
Eugene pushed himself out of his chair and made his way to the front door. Victoria was standing out on the porch. She wore a deep burgundy rain jacket with hood. There was a Tupperware container in one hand. She offered it to him and as he took it she carefully pushed aside the wet bangs off her forehead with a bright pink fingernail. Her forehead was glistening with rain.
“My mom made you some tamales,” Victoria said.
The plastic was warm in his hand and he could almost smell the delicious peppery meat. He would have trouble eating it but maybe he could gum it to at least enjoy the taste. Victoria’s mom, Andrea, had always been good to him like this, providing him with a steady supply of delicious dinners.
“Tell your mom I said gracias.”
“I will.” She turned to go just as another downpour began.
She paused at the top of the steps, uncertain.
“Stay undercover for a little bit until this gust blows over,” Eugene offered.
“Yeah, I think I will.” She put her hands on her hips and looked out at the storm while she chewed on her lower lip.
“Do you want to wait inside?”
“What?” She turned to him.
His voice had been lost in the sound of the rain bouncing off the steel roof. He moved closer and took a deep breath to repeat it louder when there was a sudden brilliant burst of light directly behind Victoria that blinded Eugene as lighting struck his porch.
Eugene was thrown off balance and found himself on all fours on the wooden floor of his porch, his head down facing the floor as a bone-rattling clap of thunder filled the air. Plastic crinkled as he shifted and something wet trickled down his forehead. His first thought was that he’d hit his head and was bleeding, but as he blinked his vision back into focus there were no drops of blood on the porch beneath him.
He was holding himself up on two hands. Only they weren’t his hands. These hands were feminine and delicate, the nails long and gently curved and colored a bright pink. His arms were covered by the crinkly material of a burgundy rain jacket. There was an immense weight pulling down from his chest, and something damp plastered to his forehead.
Eugene pushed himself into a kneeling position, noticing as he did so how the weight shifted on his chest. He was on the opposite side of the porch now, near the steps and away from the house. Still woozy, his first thought was that the lightning strike had knocked him clean across the porch. But he looked towards the front door and froze.
There was an old man lying on the floor. The few strands of silvery hair not much more than wisps across his bald head. His face was heavily lined and he looked shrunken and frail. It took a second for Eugene to realize that the old man was him. Or his body, at least.
Eugene gasped and looked down at himself. His view was blocked by a rain coat that bulged out heavily from his chest and obscured his body. He brought his hands up to his chest briefly, felt the weight of hidden breasts and dropped them just as suddenly. His hands flew to his face, feeling everything: the smooth feminine cheeks, the finely crafted nose, the elegant chin.
“What in the world?” And even his voice was feminine. Though it was slightly different hearing it through Victoria’s head, he had no doubt it was her voice.
His former body groaned and struggled weakly. Eugene crawled over to it. His old head was resting on one arm and he didn’t appear to be bleeding. Eugene gently nudged him, ignoring for the moment the strange sensations of piloting someone else’s body.
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