Michelle would arrive daily with a two to ten minute brief on her own dating status, her nightly dreams, grades, new family developments. Michelle repeated herself brashly, “A vampire, silly. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. My late husband, I mean. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight.
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