Michael Malone - Weebly

"Young man? Excuse me, young man? Can I help
you? Are you ill?" Prudence Lattice put her hand on the
blue chambray shirt.
Walter Saar was bent over in the pew, his head to
his knees. He lifted his face to see a shimmery blur of a
small, birdish, elderly woman.
"No," he mumbled, hands and face covered with
tears. "Thank you.
I'm not ill."
"Oh. Good." She smiled. "You're just crying. Good.
I thought maybe you'd had an attack or something.
Music often makes me cry.
It just gets so big inside you, you're not big enough
for it, and out it comes in tears. Do you know what I
mean?" She shook her head, fumbling through her
purse. "You young people. None of you ever have any
handkerchiefs. Never plan to cry, I suppose. Or catch
colds or perspire or have anything go wrong. Oh, I
guess I was just the same. Here we go. You take it.
Yes. There."
"Absurd. So sorry. Can't imagine what. Feel a
perfect fool."