apologetically. Aurora’s mouth was already full of pie.
“That’s what I hate about television,” Aurora said, pausing at the halfway point of the pie and wishing she had brought two pieces home instead of one.
“What’s what you hate?” Rosie asked, when no comment followed. Aurora sat with her fork in her hand, looking annoyed and unhappy.
“What I hate about it is that it brings every suffering face in the world into my kitchen,” Aurora said. “I don’t want to see Chinese suffering, Romanian suffering, Palestinian suffering, South American suffering, or any other suffering. I’m up to my gullet in suffering right here at home—you saw how sad Melly looked. I’ll try to take care of my own but I’m not going to sit here and feel responsible for China or Romania or anywhere else.”
“That’s the most pie I ever saw you eat in one day,” Rosie commented. “Three pieces of mince, and then there was that piece of chocolate cream that you ate this morning before we went to the prison.”
“So what, it’s the only appetite I can satisfy by myself,” Aurora snapped. “No males or their organs need be involved. Just me and my pie.”
“Oh,” Rosie said, “Did the General flash you or what?”
“No,” Aurora said. “Pascal ran cold water on his necktie without bothering to take if off first, and then he attempted to strangle me. I’m so disappointed in him I could cry, and I would if I weren’t already cried out.”
“I know what you mean,” Rosie said, “I’m about ready to give up on C.C. I would give up on him, only the next bozo to come down the pike might be even more of a washout than he is.”
Aurora didn’t answer, so Rosie got up and left. She liked to leave a perfectly clean kitchen, but in this case holding out for perfect cleanliness meant waiting for Aurora to finish her mince pie and then washing the pie plate and returning it to the cabinet. Rosie decided she better not risk it. Aurora did not look to be in the mood to appreciate having her pie plate snatched from her hands and washed.
“Good night, hon,” Rosie said, going out the back door. As soon as she got to her cottage in the backyard she meant to switch CNN back on and see if any more babies had been rescued from the fallen mountain in South America.
Aurora knew Rosie would have liked to snatch the pie plate; she had been prepared to tear her limb from limb, verbally, at least, if she tried it. But when Rosie left, the fighting spirit went out of her at once, and her appetite suffered such a sharp falling off that she could scarcely finish her pie. In fact, she even left a curl of crust on her plate, something she rarely did. She almost regretted chasing Rosie off. When the two of them were together they at least generated enough human energy to bicker, and there were moments when bickering with Rosie seemed a good deal better than doing nothing with no one.
But Rosie was gone, the pie was eaten, her irredeemably sad grandson had been duly visited, Hector had been rude, Melanie had been depressed, and Pascal had disgraced his nation, more or less. There were moments when she felt she might someday achieve a living, more or less complete relationship with Pascal Ferney, but those moments were few and far between. And yet, if not with him, who could she achieve a living, more or less complete relationship with?
Discouraged, she put the pie plate in the sink and surveyed the contents of her refrigerator for a moment, hoping to spot some especially enticing leftover that might revive her appetite. People were constantly pointing out to her that all she did was eat, and it was more or less true; but eating was at least a real pleasure and it seemed hardly to matter any more whether she put on weight. She had never been exactly tiny, and now that she was older, she felt that weight was one worry she could safely dismiss.
“I’d rather be strong than thin,” she said, when Rosie and Melanie chided her about
“That’s what I hate about television,” Aurora said, pausing at the halfway point of the pie and wishing she had brought two pieces home instead of one.
“What’s what you hate?” Rosie asked, when no comment followed. Aurora sat with her fork in her hand, looking annoyed and unhappy.
“What I hate about it is that it brings every suffering face in the world into my kitchen,” Aurora said. “I don’t want to see Chinese suffering, Romanian suffering, Palestinian suffering, South American suffering, or any other suffering. I’m up to my gullet in suffering right here at home—you saw how sad Melly looked. I’ll try to take care of my own but I’m not going to sit here and feel responsible for China or Romania or anywhere else.”
“That’s the most pie I ever saw you eat in one day,” Rosie commented. “Three pieces of mince, and then there was that piece of chocolate cream that you ate this morning before we went to the prison.”
“So what, it’s the only appetite I can satisfy by myself,” Aurora snapped. “No males or their organs need be involved. Just me and my pie.”
“Oh,” Rosie said, “Did the General flash you or what?”
“No,” Aurora said. “Pascal ran cold water on his necktie without bothering to take if off first, and then he attempted to strangle me. I’m so disappointed in him I could cry, and I would if I weren’t already cried out.”
“I know what you mean,” Rosie said, “I’m about ready to give up on C.C. I would give up on him, only the next bozo to come down the pike might be even more of a washout than he is.”
Aurora didn’t answer, so Rosie got up and left. She liked to leave a perfectly clean kitchen, but in this case holding out for perfect cleanliness meant waiting for Aurora to finish her mince pie and then washing the pie plate and returning it to the cabinet. Rosie decided she better not risk it. Aurora did not look to be in the mood to appreciate having her pie plate snatched from her hands and washed.
“Good night, hon,” Rosie said, going out the back door. As soon as she got to her cottage in the backyard she meant to switch CNN back on and see if any more babies had been rescued from the fallen mountain in South America.
Aurora knew Rosie would have liked to snatch the pie plate; she had been prepared to tear her limb from limb, verbally, at least, if she tried it. But when Rosie left, the fighting spirit went out of her at once, and her appetite suffered such a sharp falling off that she could scarcely finish her pie. In fact, she even left a curl of crust on her plate, something she rarely did. She almost regretted chasing Rosie off. When the two of them were together they at least generated enough human energy to bicker, and there were moments when bickering with Rosie seemed a good deal better than doing nothing with no one.
But Rosie was gone, the pie was eaten, her irredeemably sad grandson had been duly visited, Hector had been rude, Melanie had been depressed, and Pascal had disgraced his nation, more or less. There were moments when she felt she might someday achieve a living, more or less complete relationship with Pascal Ferney, but those moments were few and far between. And yet, if not with him, who could she achieve a living, more or less complete relationship with?
Discouraged, she put the pie plate in the sink and surveyed the contents of her refrigerator for a moment, hoping to spot some especially enticing leftover that might revive her appetite. People were constantly pointing out to her that all she did was eat, and it was more or less true; but eating was at least a real pleasure and it seemed hardly to matter any more whether she put on weight. She had never been exactly tiny, and now that she was older, she felt that weight was one worry she could safely dismiss.
“I’d rather be strong than thin,” she said, when Rosie and Melanie chided her about
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