Die a Little Longer

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The second time Maida peered through the trellised vines which formed shimmering green curtains on all sides of the porch, she uttered a squeal of dismay. The wide-shouldered young man who had spent five minutes studying the name on her mailbox was turning into the steep lane and approaching the house.

It absolutely could not be the new owner arriving to take possession a day before she expected him, when none of the dishes were packed and her final house cleaning had left her looking like she had wallowed in a coal bin. It absolutely could not be, but it probably was, for no one but the mailman had called in three weeks.

Setting the dishes she was holding alongside a half-filled barrel, she rushed into the house and whisked the dust wrapper from her hair. In the mirror over the kitchen sink she examined the face Tom occasionally described as “tony,” noting its toniness was at the moment incognito behind a good deal of plebian dirt. She attacked the dirt with the dampened end of a dish towel and fluffed her loose black hair into a semblance of order.

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