“Mr. Wenderson, wakeup dear,” Mrs. Bellishing whispers delicately.
Although her charge remains reposed, Mrs. Bellishing is well informed of his chicanery. Rheumy eyes secrete effluent. Permeating talc scents the whiff of a clandestine butt.
“Y’all’ll be late for Miss Capland.”
Mr. Wenderson’s eyes pop wide. The blue veins on his hand-backs stand erect. His skin is filo-like over bones as he writhes against age’s hellishly biased burden.
“Now, don’t get all steamed,” Mrs. Bellishing chides, placing the sacred Viet Nam Veteran cap on his head.
The twitching gelatinous lips dripping salvia belie the warrior who knows still for what he fights.