“Philemon and Baucis lived in a country summer house. The sun seeped through the thick curtains and spread in hot spots over Philemon’s sagging bulldog chin in his sleep, his stuck together wrinkled neck, then, sliding to the left, onto the next bed, it found the gnarled, dry hand of Baucis, stretched out on a silk blanket, illuminated her nails, veins, brown age spots, crawled up, reached an open mouth overgrown with black hairs, grinned, grew dull and left this room, losing all interest in the sleeping people. Then there was a groaning sound. She woke up first, wiped away a trickle of saliva with her palm, looked anxiously at the snoring Philemon, made sure that he was not dead, and, quickly putting her numb feet into worn out slippers, set about life...”