The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. God, I hate these stupid ear infections! Have you ever had one?” Michelle asked. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. The lady had disappeared. You take them.
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