Old Bette Davis movies are all she watches now. There’s one where Bette Davis’s character goes blind, and as the credits rolled my mother said, ‘Must be what they mean when they talk about Bette Davis eyes.

Gerty crushed what remained of her cigarette beneath her foot, melting the no-longer-pink plastic on the sole of the no-longer-pink slipper, and embraced the girl for a moment. She would know that it was time for new slippers when someday a cigarette burned right through.

Silas still owned the junk shop on Breyten Road, and only the very foolish would classify it as having anything to do with antiques; few in Breytenville owned antiques, and even fewer looked to acquire them. But for a knickknack at the right price, there was always a market, and for the right price any knickknack could easily be put on the market. Desperate times, desperate pleasures, that’s what Silas always said.

At the table next to them sat an old woman and a young man, and across from these two another man, slightly older, apparently an American. The old woman and the young man, her grandson, spoke to each other in one language, and to the American in another. The placing of their lunch order was a strange mixture of languages and accents, the young man ordering for the old woman, following her lament on the size of the portions.

Just wait until you get to be my age. If there’s a hair that isn’t gray, it’s an achievement. Getting old means getting ugly.

She liked it best when it was raining, and she sometimes imagined that in one of the many tall buildings there was another Gerty mopping the floor and looking back at her, a Gerty who had witnessed and learned from the many mistakes this Gerty had made. A Gerty who would do things right.

Alice suddenly found herself examining the birdbath as if it was a tide pool along the shore whose depths held countless creatures instead of just algae and bird droppings. Admiring the sunset instead might have been a wiser decision, as then she could at least attempt to blink away the tears forming in her eyes.

Out of the four graves that Alice visited, one had a headstone—the other three would need time to settle—and it was there that she allowed herself to rest. When she grew weary of talking, she began to hum, and it wasn’t long before the tune carried her thoughts into the trees, shaking loose a handful of leaves.

Listen, you mustn’t go painting my picture too well either. Not every wrinkle needs to be seen.

It’s art. None of those Greek women have arms.