“Let’s do the obituaries,” says Mimi. “Over-under.”

Whenever Mimi gets her hands on a newspaper, she inevitably winds up at the obituaries, where she compares the ages of the people who have died with ours.

Over-under.

I work my way down the column. “Under, under, under, under . . .”

“That’s four in a row, Bird.”

“Here’s another.”

“Are we that old?”

“Here’s an over.”

Mimi sits up. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“Still thinking that you’re going to die?”

Kitty pulls her feet up on the chair and raises her hand, as though she knows the answer to this question.

“You think about it.” Mimi snuggles down under the covers. “I’m going to take a nap, and when I wake up, I’ll expect an answer.”

So we’re in Prague, and it’s late afternoon. Mimi wakes up from her nap, and now she is feeling better.

“I’m going to take a bath,” she says. “A soak in the tub is always a good idea.”

“Sure.”

“You want to join me?”

“In the tub?”

“You know what happens when I have a slight fever.”

“You get horny.”

“Women get sensual,” says Mimi. “Horny is what men get.”

There’s no profit in trying to argue this point.

“Are you horny?”

I fill the tub with hot water and sit on the toilet, while Mimi has a long soak.

“Why do you put a washcloth on your breasts?”

“So the girls don’t get cold.”

At intervals, Mimi works the faucet with her toes, so the water in the tub stays hot. I go back to reading the newspaper.

“There’s a story about a new sock technology that is supposed to help circulation. The company claims that if you wear their socks, it will help with energy levels.”

“Socks?”

“They’re recommended for diabetics.”

“Maybe you should try them, Bird.”

“I don’t need socks.”

“The ones you have cut into your calves.” Mimi rearranges the washcloth. “Every time you take off your socks, it looks as though someone has tried to strangle your legs. What else are the socks supposed to do?”

“Says they help with depression.”

“Maybe the socks would save you from your demons.”

At the top of the article is a small box that says “Paid Advertisement.”

“It’s not real,” I say. “The company who makes the socks paid for the article.”

“Ah,” says Mimi, “the line between reality and fiction.”

“There’s a line?”

“Find the classifieds,” says Mimi. “The classifieds are always fun, especially the personals.”

I flip through the sections of the paper. Then I do it again. “Nope, no classifieds.”

“What?”

“It looks as though The New York Times no longer has a classified section. Maybe it’s only online.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Mimi soaks the washcloth and puts it back on her breasts. “Then we’ll just have to make up our own.”

I fold the paper and set it down beside the toilet.