And it may not. It still may not end well. Life being, as they say, long. But it has not ended badly yet. It has not ended at all. When we are in that store, we will often hear him singing her praises, whether she is nearby or not, and same with her: she is always singing his praises, whether he is nearby or not. Seeing her now, one does not think “looks like bird” but “small, glowing lady.” And he, he moves around the store with a theatrical beneficence, seeming to take a fastidious pleasure in helping customers with even the smallest things, sometimes even helping a customer too much, for too long, not at all ashamed now, it seems, to be seen working in his mother’s store, as he had so often seemed to be formerly. And over time, the mother has become, one might say, subservient to, even adoring of, the couple they have become, and, whether they are nearby or not, but especially if they are not, will sing their praises, saying that they are devoted, absolutely devoted to each other, is the way she will most often put it.

Ghoul

GHOUL

At noon Layla wheels over Vat of Lunch. For a sec I can be not-scary, leaning against our plastiform wall meant to resemble human entrails.

“Why aren’t the old served first?” crabs Leonard, Squatting Ghoul Two, senior to all.

Last week Leonard’s knee went out. We, his fellow Squatting Ghouls, have since been allowing him to sit upon our plastiform Remorseful Demon, which, at this moment, emits one of its periodic Remorse-groans.

“Grieve on, foul beast,” I say, per Script.

“Foul indeed!” says Artie, Feuding Ghoul Four: great guy, always blurting out such quips as “Brian, you are really on it, in terms of the way you keep casting your eyes fitfully back and forth while squatting!” To which I might reply, “Thanks, Artie, you Feuding Ghouls are also ripping it up, I so admire how, every day, you guys come up with a whole new topic for your Feud!”

Into my paper bowl goes: Lunch. A broth with, plopped down in it, a single gleaming Kit Kat.

Someday I, too, may be old, knees giving out, some group of Squatting Ghouls as yet unborn (or currently mere Li’l Demons, running around in their bright red diapers) allowing elder me, kaput like Leonard, to sit on, perhaps, this very same plastiform Remorseful Demon, in that dismal future time!

Today, however, all is well: Break Week is nigh.

Next A.M., via Tram, the Break-eligible among us are taken all jolly to the Room: a cavernous space shaped exactly the same as our workhouse, MAWS OF HELL, as well as the eleven other plenteous underground workhouses within our Region. But free of the supplementary Décor that makes each workhouse a unique immersive experience. Free, as well, of Byway Paths, and the small cars on tracks that bear our delighted Visitors through us. The Room is, truth be told, just a great space for a relaxed chill-out! It has Bowling, should you choose; pretend meadow, with real-appearing flowers; free-flowing creek, beside which we may sit, out of which fake fish leap on these sort of wheels, four fish per wheel, smiling, as if to say, “Leaping is what we love!”