I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.
Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets.
It's just a crazy damned life, that's all.
I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.