"It's nothing. I -- I put my back out. Working too hard. Stress. It's nothing,
Gran."

He chances to look up at Linda, who is standing where he left her when he dived
reflexively for his comm, staring disbelievingly at him. Her robe is open to her
navel, and he sees the three curls of pubic hair above the knot in its belt that
curl towards her groin, sees the hourglass made by the edges of her breasts that
are visible in the vee of the robe, sees the edge of one areole, the left one.
He is in a tee shirt and bare feet and boxers, crouching over his trousers,
talking to his Gran, and he locks eyes with Linda and shakes his head
apologetically, then settles down to sit cross-legged, hunched over an erection
he didn't know he had, resolves to look at her while he talks.

"Stress! Always stress. You should take some vacation time. Are you seeing
someone? A chiropractor?"

He's entangled in the lie. "Yes. I have an appointment tomorrow."

"How will you get there? Don't take the subway. Take a taxi. And give me the
doctor's name, I'll look him up."

"I'll take a cab, it'll be fine, he's the only one my travel insurance covers."

"The only one? Art! What kind of insurance do you have? I'll call them, I'll
find you a chiropractor. Betty Melville, she has family in London, they'll know
someone."

God. "It's fine, Gran. How are you?"

A sigh. "How am I? On this day, how am I?"

"How is your health? Are you keeping busy?"

"My health is fine. I keep busy. Father Ferlenghetti came to dinner last night
at the house. I made a nice roast, and I'll have sandwiches today."

"That's good."

"I'm thinking of your mother, you know."

"I know."

"Do you think of her, Art? You were so young when she went, but you remember
her, don't you?"

"I do, Gran." He remembers her, albeit dimly. He was barely nine when she died.

"Of course -- of course you remember your mother. It's a terrible thing for a
mother to live longer than her daughter."

His Gran says this every year. Art still hasn't figured out how to respond to
it. Time for another stab at it. "I'm glad you're still here, Gran."

Wrong thing. Gran is sobbing now. Art drops his eyes from Linda's and looks at
the crazy weft and woof of the faded old Oriental rug. "Oh, Gran," he says. "I'm
sorry."

In truth, Art has mourned and buried his mother. He was raised just fine by his
Gran, and when he remembers his mother, he is more sad about not being sad than
sad about