Frederick Pollack
			Care They had the look of having wakened to sing away night horrors or hold frail whining shoulders till, its helmet rebuckled, a head could bang its quilted wall in peace for twenty years.  Or of attending, through trackless hours, epic voyages to the hall bathroom (spotless, even dusty now) and back; of combing hair, and changing bags whose tubes hung like pale filigree in a boudoir; of applying makeup for trips into the unaccustomed day, and talking, through pureed and sliced and flung dinners, to enraged incomprehension as if to someone. The "space" they mentioned took a while to grasp, for their pine-paneled walls were full of beer-mugs, beer-mirrors, pictures of sailing ships, and framed enameled spoons collected in the margin of their lives. It was the wife who joined me on the deck for an illicit cigarette; the husband, himself no longer moving well or much, conversed a while with Phylis, though he knew as well as Phylis that we wouldn't buy. The view was nice.  The wife smoked happily and guiltily and worried where to put our filters, but barely spoke. Sunlight, emerging, struck the curtained window of a pricier house beside the chapel that had marked their lane, as we drove out into irrelevance.