Hands fluttering in her lap, she continued: she was sixty-seven or eight, padded at waist and breasts, rings underneath her eyes, her glasses rimless and dual-lensed, her hair a series of grey-white streaks. Orville knew she often spoke without pauses, blurring her words, but now her voice had become harsher and the blurring often made it difficult to understand her.
Someone tapped on the door.
"Come in," Orville called: he was pleasantly surprised by Lena's beauty, her athletic body: her face had assumed an esthetic quality; she wore her black hair combed close to her skull--quite Spanish.
"Hi, Orv!"
"Hi, Lena ... you look great!"
"It's good ... it's good to see you!"
They kissed like kids.
She had always liked or loved him: she admired his masculinity: their old rapport returned at once: arms around each other they grinned happily, sheepishly.
"How was your supper last night?" Therèse asked.
"Great," Orville said.