Clarence is

tightening his tie and looking uncomfortable. He's looking uncomfortable like someone may say something which will make him feel so. It will make him uncomfortable because he won't be sure quite how to answer without being dishonest. And Clarence is the type of man, my friends, who in those crucial moments, knows not how to lie.

In an effort to ease this imminent discomfort, he had unbuttoned his shirt collar and tugged loose his tie. Subconsciously, and in advance, he was bracing himself, he was easing his breath. He was hanging his head, with his eyes to the side. The question approaching, crawling slowly all the while.

But, then it paused, poised. Lightly, slightly, surely, slyly, teetering, teasing, sitting on the ledge. Letting the unbalanced weight of its uncomfortableness pull it torward--- now totter forward--- falter, l e a n--- and finally fall!

He had loosened his tie, looked down, to the side. Yet in doing so, he had thus exposed.. . the flesh of his neck. And if his neck, then his chest, and if his chest, then his heart. Spoiling any attempt at false, feigned response.


So, Clarence is clutching his shirt collar; he is tightening his tie. He doesn't want to tell untruths. He doesn't want to break, to cry.

Finally, he feels her hand.
Nothing more, now, need be said.
It is sure, she feels, she knows.

She will die.













[And this is death]