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If there’s one thing Lucille hates, it’s how science has to rain on whimsy’s parade: Rainbows not a gift from leprechauns offering pots of gold, but only a trick of refraction. A blue sky not a miles-wide painting done by a heavenly hand, but molecules scattering light.
Lucille will not give up her baths. No. In the tub, she is what she thinks being stoned must be like: she enjoys a feeling of timelessness and wide content.
I hope this doesn’t offend you, but we don’t eat dessert.” Lucille cannot think of one thing to say, but finally manages a stiff “I see.” And here is a bit of a miracle right now, because what she really, really thought she’d say is, “Never mind, then. I don’t want to come.”
The words make for a quick mix of emotions: First a zippy thrill, then a big ploppy sense of contentment, and it’s like butter in a pan, that feeling of contentment, melting and spreading out inside her.
Never think winter will last when spring is equally inevitable.
