Unfinished Symphony (Logan 3)

guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven

years at the least," she advised.

"Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.

"Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered

and marched out of the parlor.

I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the

things she had told me the way you would try to

digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept

repeating themselves.

"Come along, dear!" she shouted.

I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned

in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then

she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling

her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television

screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat

on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans

and sighs as one handsome young man after another

paraded before us on the large television screen. But fatigue began to rise in my body like

mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting

heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only

to be wakened by her shouts at the television set,

complaining about something a character said or did,

as if she thought they could actually hear her. "Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You

look tired, dear. Perhaps you

should go to bed. I know it's late for you."

"Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"

I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything." "Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast,

we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper

to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any

protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip