that book

Bold hand. Marion.

-- O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.

-- What are you singing?

-- La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love's Old Sweet Song.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.

-- Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

-- What time is the funeral?

-- Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.

-- No: that book.

Other stocking. Her petticoat.
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-- It must have fell down, she said.
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He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorvez. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orange-keyed chamberpot.

-- Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask you.

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