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Teatime triptych



She was naked from the knees up, the skin these days ballooning over the socks like a wound wrapped too tight, her feet cold, the razor stubble sore. She displayed her aging with full commentary, walking him through the tired breasts, the burgeoning jowls, the genital odor lilting harshly from earthiness to a musty rancor, tongue spreading in her spreading mouth. Her once tidy ass now lost in a buffering zone of comfort foods, and all this bound up in a skimmilk-blue pallor. There was a coolness unaccountable for by ambient temperature alone, impervious to the frantic hastes of aerobics, woolsocks, carpetburns. Look at me, she warned.

Later over tea and pancakes lumped with fresh apples and fresh cream and freshly grated cinammon they sat with the french doors open and watched the wind pick up as the morning sky darkened. She a killer of men and a swindler of life savings swirled seven tiny, tiny spoonfuls of sugar into the teacup and said That wind might just ruin my orchids.

He sipped his tea and nodded.