”“Shopping?” I said, my tone unenthusiastic.“All right, not shopping then, or do you see that door over there?”She pointed at the opposite w...ll, there was a door with a disabled sign over it.“Yes,” I said, “it’s a disabled toilet.”“Have you ever been in a disabled toilet?”“No, why?”She pulled me close.“They’re big, and private,” she whispered in my ear, “and there are plenty of places where I can brace myself while we say goodbye properly.”“Are you suggesting that we should go in there. She could make a dessert that would make you cry.Joan and Marjorie were from the Georgia coast and near Cincinnati, respectively. Joan was a little older, build like a farmer's wife with her blonde hair kept in a braid. The plants loved her blunt, capable hands. Marjorie was a bit younger and was a pleasure to be around. She saw beauty in everything. I ended up subscribing to half a dozen gardening digest magazines for them and our courtyard was never anything but a showplace. They were lovers. More

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