Michael Malone - Weebly

Remember how we never even used to lock the
front door, and we used to think how different it was
here from Manhattan? Was it so long ago?"
It should not be assumed that Mrs. Canopy
addressed her deceased husband in a way that
suggested mental disturbance; perhaps it would be
fairer to say that while her conversational tone might
have suggested to a casual passerby some such
problem, she was quite capable of distinguishing reality
from fantasy. She needed a vehicle to receive her
thoughts, and Vincent's Buick had come to serve that
purpose. She did not necessarily assume that he lay
listening beneath it. For that matter, he had rarely
listened when he had sat across from her at dinner, or
before the living room fire. The change was that he no
longer got up and went to bed before she finished.
Mrs. Canopy stretched out her legs and recrossed
her ankles with a sigh. How ridiculous not to be able to
sit on a low stool without cramps, creaks, and mottled
skin that had lost its circulation. How annoyingly
unavoidable aging was. She had been right never to
become too involved with her body. It only betrayed