Monday.
Physio day. Has been for months now, ever since Mum's hip flared up again in winter — dragged Dad along not long after, once his knee started doing that thing where it turns in on itself with every second step.
Same waiting room off Rutledge Street, the good parking spot outside gone by the time we pulled in ten past nine. Circled twice before giving up and paying for the lot behind the chemist.
Mum went first. Forty minutes, the usual — the physio pressing his thumb into her hip while she made the face she makes when it hurts but doesn't want to say so.
Came out walking the same as she went in. Maybe worse. Right side still catching on every second step, a small hitch she thinks I don't notice. I notice.
Dad's turn after. Watched him get up out of the waiting room chair the way he does now — hand on the armrest first, weight through the good leg, the bad knee following a half-second late, like it needed convincing.
Forty minutes for him too. Came out saying it felt looser. Walked to the car proving otherwise — that rolling, careful walk, knee swinging out and in with each step instead of straight through, like the joint's forgotten the shortest way to do it.
Couldn't get him past the chemist without stopping once, hand out for the wall, pretending to read a sign about flu shots.
Stopped at the little Cantonese place near the chemist on the way back — already out, no sense sending Dad home to stand at the stove on that knee. Braised fish over rice, three boxes, soft enough for the two of them without either having to fight it with their teeth.
Got them both home, kettle on, boxes still warm on the table. Dad complained there was too much sugar in the sauce, same as he always does, then finished the whole box anyway.
Sat with Mum while we ate. She asked, out of nowhere, whether the physio thought it'd ever properly settle. Told her I didn't know. Neither of us believed the other one wasn't worried.
Kept thinking about it on the drive back to the shop after. Two of them, same house, same age nearly, each carrying it in a different leg.
Ninuo's been asking when we're getting that coffee again — this week, she reckons, Rowe Street or wherever. Been meaning to ask her something, if I actually go. Whether Pharmanex do anything at all for joints — hips, knees, that kind of thing. Not expecting a fix. Just curious what's actually sitting in that side of the catalogue, the part I've never properly looked at, next to all the toothpaste and roll-ons I already know by heart.
Don't know what she'll say. Don't know if there's anything to say, really.
Wrote it down anyway, on the back of the physio receipt, so I wouldn't forget to ask.
Dad was still going on about the sauce being too sweet by the time I left. Same complaint every time.
Didn't argue. Just let him have that.