Issue link: http://viewer.e-digitaleditions.com/i/85232
and pinched a piece of loose skin into a flap between two fingers, then released it. It flopped over. What cells do I have in common with that dark haired young woman? What thoughts, what feelings, if any? Where has she gone? Changed into…this? Me? Bing and I. How odd. How sad. How come that juicy, young creature, vibrant and alive like a, like a...what? The image flashed into her mind of a young cat, its eyes glinting under long lashes, like a film star's, its gaze fixed on a fluffy ball, supple limbs poised to spring into frolic with smooth, powerful bounds. I, who lived in my mirror, my make-up, my body that I knew so well, turned into a dried up, saggy hag, flat as a road kill cat? And how come that good-looking quiet guy turned into this bald, wrinkled old man who farts in my bed and grumps when I try to help him into his trousers and socks? She glanced across at Arthur. "Time passes, eh?" "Sure does." A cool breeze had sprung up. Martha shivered, went into the campervan, a gift to themselves, shortly after they retired, on their silver wedding anniversary, and came back out with their jackets. They sat for a time in silence. Ripples appeared on the lake. In the distance smoke arose from some camper's fire. "Funny thing, time. Doesn't seem that long ago. How do you feel about getting old?" asked Arthur. "Better than the alternative." "What's that?" "Dying young." Martha rose, cleared the breakfast dishes from the table, went back into the campervan and returned with a bottle of wine. "Something to celebrate." "What's to celebrate?" "Being alive." They drank the whole bottle. Martha felt drowsy and closed her eyes. A noise aroused her. She sat up and stared at Arthur. He was struggling to his feet, swaying. Then he gave a cry, and pitched back onto his camping chair, which collapsed, leaving him sprawling on the grass, his head entwined in the mechanism. He lay still. She bent over him and felt for his pulse but there was none. She sat back on her chair and reached for her cell phone. There was no reception. "Oh, dearie me. Well, never mind, these things are sent to try us. I'll just have to wait till somebody comes along." The mist on the lake had broadened into an impenetrable blanket. She watched as it moved towards shore and soon enveloped her. She pulled her jacket tighter and closed her eyes. She heard a vehicle approaching along the metal road. It threw up clouds of dust, whirling the mist. She stood, waving her arms and calling out. The vehicle slowed, turned off the road and drove onto the grass towards her. "Goodness, it's a Chev Belair. Such a long time since I've seen one of those." The Chev pulled alongside the campervan. A young driver leapt out, stood and gaped. "Martha!" he called. "Bing! Darling!" she shouted, sprang up and ran into his arms. He kissed her wildly, clutching her breasts, and she began to rip off his clothes. A bright light overhead. Men dressed in white standing over her, their faces serious. A woman in uniform, talking to her, as if from a thousand miles away. "Martha, Martha, are you awake, dearie? You've not been well. You're in hospital. We're taking care of you." And there was Arthur, his bald head shining under the lights, holding her hand, tears running down his wrinkles in rivulets. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: After 22 years of private psychotherapy practice in the city, Bruce Costello retired to the country, where he and his wife live the quiet life. He now have leisure to develop new interests, like short story writing. Earlier in life he was a creative writer in radio. She calling out. The vehicle slowed, turned off the waving her arms and metal road. It threw up clouds of dust, whirling the mist. She stood, road and drove onto the grass towards her. heard a vehicle approaching along the